


Vassal

by toesohnoes



Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural, Dubious Consent, M/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-07
Updated: 2011-06-12
Packaged: 2017-10-19 02:56:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toesohnoes/pseuds/toesohnoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sean gave Mark a supernatural sex slave, Mark thought that was going to be the strangest part of his month. He never thought he'd end up in court arguing for his ownership rights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**i.**

When Mark walks into his office in the morning looking like a man who has spent his life drinking, Chris knows that it's going to be a difficult week. He wheels his chair back from his desk but carries on holding onto the edge: something tells him he's going to need some support for this revelation.

"What happened?" he asks.

What he means is, 'what do I have to clear up now?', but that really isn't the best way to talk to your boss.

"Sean," Mark says. He tumbles into the chair opposite Chris's desk, sprawling onto it like he's been shot. "He got me a gift."

This story really isn't going to end well, is it? Chris crosses his arms over his chest when Mark doesn't seem too willing to continue. "What is it?"

" _He_ ," Mark clarifies. "Not an 'it', a 'he'."

"A dog? A puppy?" Chris guesses. It doesn't feel right. Although, Mark is exactly the kind of person that could be irritated by the presence of puppies.

"A person." Mark frowns. "Well, sort of. He said they're called vassals. They're not human. They look it, but they're not. I don't know – Sean said everyone has one these days."

Chris stares at Mark's blank face, purposefully zoning out so that he doesn't have to throw anything. He breathes, very calmly, in and out. "Tell me you've set him free," he says. He's heard about it (there was even an article in the _New York Times_ last month about the trend) but that doesn't mean he has to support it or see it as even halfway ethical. "You cannot keep a person as a pet, Mark!"

"He's not a person," Mark says, before he frowns in confusion. "Or, he's not human. Maybe that means the same thing. The point is I can't 'let him go'."

Chris pinches the bridge of his nose, and peeks at Mark from over his hand. "Do I want to know why, exactly?"

"We bonded." Mark pauses, but continues speaking before Chris can start to lecture him about the rights of non-human entities. "Not sexually. I let him drink some of my blood to seal the deal. I was drunk. Sean said it would be a good idea."

"As a general lesson, if Sean thinks that something would be a good idea, don't do it," Chris says, even if on the whole that isn't true. "What kind of creature is he, exactly? Your – vassal?"

"He's a mixed breed. Vampire and succubus, I think, or maybe fairy and succubus. It's hard to tell. He looks really human."

Chris tries to remind himself once again that going to punch Sean really wouldn't be a good idea right now. "You haven't had sex with him, right?" he double-checks.

Mark shakes his head. "I'm not stupid."

"You are an asshole, though," Chris reminds him. "Just make sure you don't touch him too much. They say that's, uh, addictive." God, he doesn't want to be having conversations with Mark about the addictive qualities of supernatural sex. He hates his job, sometimes.

Mark promises that he has no intention of sticking his dick anywhere near his new ward. Chris is left with the intense desire to delete Mark's last sentence from his brain.

"Then I'll look into it," Chris says. "There must be a way of breaking the bond so that he can go free."

"That's not actually why I came to see you. I'm looking into that myself."

Chris's eyes narrow. "What?"

"I have work to do. Coding." Mark glances over his shoulder towards the door. "And I couldn't leave Wardo at home, so…"

He opens the door and hustles out before Chris can get out of the chair to stop him. In his place is an orderly-looking man, around his own age in appearance, dressed in a suit far neater than anything that this office has ever seen.

He watches Mark go with a sense of amusement. "Is he always like this?" Wardo asks.

Half-standing, half-sitting, Chris tries to pull his thoughts together. "Like what?"

"Presumptive. Rude." Wardo looks away from the door towards Chris, with a smile on his face that looks far too happy. His eyes are like warm almonds. Something about them gives away that he isn't quite human, but Chris can't put his finger on it. "Sexy as hell."

Chris snorts so hard it hurts the back of his throat. "Presumptive and rude, yes. I'll leave the 'sexy' part to your own judgement."

Wardo smiles, and it's more reassuring than it ought to be. "My name's Eduardo Saverin," he says, holding his hand out as he steps forward, closer to the desk.

As Chris shakes his hand and introduces himself, he thinks that Mark owes him a huge bonus come Christmas time.

*

Baby-sitting Eduardo is actually easy, especially since he's at least a hundred years away from being a 'baby' by any stretch of the definition. He makes himself useful around the office, and reads anything that he can get his hands on, but his eyes always drift in the direction of Mark's office as if drawn there inescapably.

"You don't have to do this, you know," Chris says as lightly as he can, once they've been working together in his office for a couple of hours. It's almost lunchtime, says the clock on the wall.

Reading his way through a monthly report, Eduardo's mouth twitches into a broad smile. He looks up, his large eyes filled with amusement. "Is this the part where you convince me to break the chains of servitude and rise up against the masters?"

"Well, I wasn't going to use those exact words." Chris swirls a pen around his fingers and studies the being on the other side of his desk. "I've never spent a lot of time around any supernaturals."

"Not many people have." Eduardo's smile never seems to falter. "It's okay. I know it's strange for humans."

"It's not okay." Chris wants to explain about civil rights and the Thirteenth Amendment, but he holds his tongue. For all he knows, Eduardo had been around to see it happening. "You don't have to do this."

"I know. I'm here because I want to be." Eduardo glances down at the report he's reading, but it seems mostly to be an excuse not to look at Chris. "My lineage has served the great men and women of history for centuries. I'm following in their footsteps."

"With Mark."

"He's changing the world; he's important." Eduardo shakes his head. "I don't expect you to understand. Being a vassal, it's more complex than you think. It's a two-way thing. I choose to serve him, but he has responsibilities too. He has to look after me."

"Mark couldn't look after a hamster."

"Thankfully I'm a little more self-sufficient than a rodent," Eduardo answers. There is still mirth shining in his eyes, and Chris can't escape the feeling that Eduardo is finding this entire conversation inherently hilarious. "Don't worry about it. If I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't be."

"You're bound to him," Chris says.

"By choice," Eduardo confirms. "I could have refused to drink."

Chris can feel his head pounding already. "So why didn't you?"

"Because I didn't want to."

"He's not going to sleep with you, you know," Chris says. Part-succubus: it must be what he's sticking around for. Sex. With Mark. God, he's twisted.

"Which is definitely disappointing, but that's okay. I'll find other ways to make myself useful." Eduardo gestures at the papers he's reading. "So I'm going to learn all about his business, all about his life, and then I'm going to work out exactly where I fit in. Okay?"

Chris just groans. He's starting to think that even Dustin would have been more suited to deal with this than him.

 

 **ii.**

If Mark is going to keep Eduardo around (and, really, at this point he doesn't have a choice) he's going to have to get used to Chris side-eyeing him in disapproval. The problem, as far as Mark is concerned, is that Eduardo fits in easily. He gets on with his friends, he looks after him, and within a week Mark has already started to forget how he managed to survive before Sean's gift.

The other problem is that Eduardo is making it _extremely_ hard to stick to the 'no sex' rule.

When Mark comes into the kitchen on Sunday morning to find Eduardo making breakfast in just his underwear, he has to stop in the doorway. He has to stop, because he has to stare. The radio is on, playing dreadful pop music, and Eduardo is half-humming and half-singing along. Mark's eyes are drawn inescapably down the curve of his back towards the waistband of his silk boxers. His skin holds a healthy glow, and Mark isn't sure if that's because of Eduardo's supernatural side or just a case of good living.

All he knows is that he's staring, and his mouth is dry, and that this really isn't appropriate.

Eduardo's body is slim and neat, and Mark can barely stand to look without touching. That's the point, he thinks.

He clears his throat, and Eduardo half-turns from the hob. His face lights up with a ridiculously large smile at the sight of Mark. "I'm making breakfast," he says. "You like eggs, right?"

"You aren't wearing any pants," Mark replies. He's finding it very difficult not to look at Eduardo's nipples, light brown against his chest. "You aren't wearing _anything_."

"I put my boxers on," Eduardo counters, still smiling, as if they aren't talking about the acceptable level of nudity in Mark's apartment. "And my socks, actually. I thought you wouldn't want me walking around naked."

"Do you sleep naked?" Mark asks, then shakes his head. "No, don't tell me that."

"I don't sleep," Eduardo reminds him.

Which means…

Nakedness. Pointless nakedness around his flat for unknown purposes. Mark can't respond to that.

He's still staring at the nipples.

"Take a seat," Eduardo says, gesturing towards the gleaming island. Mark's flat has become extraordinarily clean and tidy since Eduardo appeared. Every surface seems to sparkle like it belongs in a show home. Cautiously, he moves to hop onto one of the chairs. "I had to get the eggs myself. I'm not even sure what it is that's growing in your fridge, but it looks poisonous."

"How did you go and get eggs?" Mark asks. He looks down as Eduardo slides a full plate in front of him. His stomach grumbles in approval. "You said you couldn't leave without my permission. Those are the rules."

And they might not be _good_ rules, or fair rules, but that's how it works, whatever this thing is. Permission is key. If Eduardo can just break the rules whenever he wants, they aren't rules at all. They're guidelines, and everyone always ignores guidelines.

"I didn't leave," Eduardo assures him. He sits down on the opposite side of the table and reaches for the newspaper. There's no food in front of him, but Mark is used to that. Eduardo doesn't seem to need to eat any more than he needs to sleep. "Fairy, remember?"

"Which means you can produce eggs?" Mark frowns, and decides that it might be best to avoid thinking about exactly how that happens. The eggs aren't sparkling. That probably means that they're safe to eat. He asks anyway, just to see Eduardo's grin. "Did you lay it?"

Stretching his hand out, Eduardo closes his palm. When he opens it again, like an expert slight of hand, there's a normal egg sitting there, waiting for Mark to take it. "I can use my powers if it's to serve my master," Eduardo explains.

Mark wrinkles his nose. "Don't call me that."

"What should I call you, then?"

There isn't really a good word for it at all, because it's not a good thing to be doing. It's the kind of situation that only Sean could get them into, and now it's Mark's job to deal with the consequences. Being given a vassal is considerably more complicated to clean up than drug use or sexual misbehaviour. It's a lot more fucking long term as well.

Also, cuter.

But Mark's not going to admit that to anyone.

"Just call me a friend," he decides eventually.

Eduardo smiles, in the way that makes his eyes crinkle at the sides. There's open glee in his expression when he smiles like that, and it makes Mark feel uncomfortable. Too much pressure. He's never been the sort of person that other people should rely on.

"Is that what I am?" Eduardo asks. "A friend?"

Mark shrugs with one shoulder and decides that maybe he ought to just shut up and eat his eggs. "I hardly know you. Ask me in another couple of weeks," he says when Eduardo's bright eyes demand an answer.

It's nothing definite, but the happy way that Eduardo settles into reading his paper makes Mark feel like maybe he's said something right for once in his life.

*

He has more energy these days, thanks to eating well and sleeping properly. He looks better; people have told him as much, but he can see it himself in the mirror. Because of Eduardo, he no longer looks like a ghost accidentally stuck on earth. An untidy, badly dressed ghost.

His flat is barely recognisable, and it never takes more than five seconds to find something he's lost.

Wardo seems happy enough, and Mark gives him a steady supply of books and work to keep him occupied. He's actually kind of cool to have around, as much as Mark likes having anyone around him.

A week turns into a month turns into two months, and before Mark knows what is happening he has a vassal implanted so deeply into his life that he wouldn't know how to function without him. "So how does this work?" he asks when they make it home from work especially late one night.

Wardo closes the door behind them and unbuttons his coat. "How does what work?" he asks.

"This. You being here." He frowns and walks further into the flat, turning lights on as he goes. "How long does it last?"

"Still trying to get rid of me?" Wardo asks. It doesn't come out quite as light as he probably means it to.

"No. If I was getting rid of you I'd go ahead and say so," Mark says. He doesn't mention that Chris is still looking into how to break the bond; it's a principle for him now. "I want to work out how this all works. You don't stay forever – you won't be here when I'm eighty, pushing my wheelchair for me. So how does it work?"

"I'm here for as long as I'm needed," Wardo says, which is really needlessly vague.

Mark plops down on his couch and reaches automatically for his laptop. His brow furrows in concentration and he uses it as a way not to pay attention to the creature in his house, the non-human that had carved a space for himself with no real permission at all.

When he next breaks away from his code and looks around, Wardo is sitting on the other end of the couch. He has a book open in front of him and his face is faraway and distant, like he's been transported away. Mark would shuffle to get a look at the cover, but he doesn't want to risk disturbing. It's not often that he gets the chance to observe Wardo without being noticed.

And, yes, it's totally something worth doing. He can't allow himself to do it very often, because when there is an openly willing and available incubus living under your roof the need to exercise self-control is heightened. But Wardo is –

He's amazing.

Mark can admit that to himself even if he's not going to say it aloud. He stretches out on the couch, inch by careful inch, until he's lying down with his toes nudging the edge of Wardo's thighs. Wardo looks away from his book, his eyebrows raised with a polite question, but it only takes him a second before he raises his book out of his lap and allows Mark to slide his feet there instead.

Wardo's hand settles onto his feet, holding the book with one hand now and holding it open with his thumb. In an absent-minded way he rubs at Mark's foot as Mark works on his coding. It's just a tiny little movement of his thumb along the centre of Mark's foot, but it feels a thousand time better than anything he'd ever done with Erica. _Anything_. Literally.

It's when Mark starts to moan in an embarrassingly needy way that Wardo puts his book to the side and really focuses.

It's magic. Actual, literal magic, which Mark in a logical way knows makes sense. Wardo is supernatural. Only, right now, with his feet feeling the effects of said magic, Mark isn't so much thinking of the logical side of thinking as he's thinking of the _holy hell I'm about to come from a foot massage_ side of things.

Which is definitely the more embarrassing side.

He loses track of his laptop within a few seconds, and he has to look up the ceiling because the way that Eduardo is watching him is far too much to take, too intense, too real. He's hard in his pants within seconds, his hips half-thrusting into the air, while even the tiniest movements from Eduardo's fingers are enough to make his entire body melt and spasm in perfection.

In under a minute, he comes inside his pants with a strangled grunt, without Eduardo once having taken his hands off of his feet. Mark stains the front of his sweatpants, a wet patch spreading fast, while his fingernails are digging into his palms. His face is bright red.

Panting for air, he finally moves his gaze from the ceiling to look back towards Wardo. Wardo's eyes are dark and his lips are slightly parted. He's watching Mark like he's something worth watching: like he's special or important or something. It makes Mark's face flush even more, his cheeks heating up, before he puts his laptop to the side and starts to get to his feet.

He's supposed to speak now. Wardo is waiting for him to say something, he can feel it, but nothing will come up. Walking to his bedroom, he hears Wardo tell him to leave his clothes outside the door for him to wash. He pretends he doesn't hear.

If he slams his bedroom door, he tells himself it's an accident.

He's too old for tantrums.

*

The next morning, Wardo comes into his room to make sure that he gets up on time, as usual. He shakes Mark's shoulder through the heavy covers of his bed, and Mark can hear the amusement and affection laced through his voice as he tells him to wake up. It's a miracle they ever make it to work on time.

A cloud of uncertainty follows Mark throughout the day, wondering how a person is supposed to act after they've orgasmed from a foot massage and walked off without acknowledging it. It's annoying, because generally speaking Mark never cares about how anyone is 'supposed' to act. He does it. There's no point in worrying about stamping on someone's feelings.

Only, here he is. Worrying.

It's annoying. He can see why he doesn't usually do it.

He keeps glancing at Wardo, trying to gauge whether or not he's angry, until Wardo finally looks up and catches his eye in the middle of the office. "It's okay," Wardo assures him. "I get it. I shouldn't have done that."

Mark frowns. He's a half step from telling Wardo to do it again, right there in the office, with kissing involved preferably, when he remembers all of the reasons why Chris would kill him for giving such an order.

"It's alright," he says. "Let's just forget about it."

It's a lot easier said than done, especially as he spends most of his afternoon staring at Eduardo's magic hands. His productivity takes a dip and he can hardly pay attention to what he's supposed to be doing.

When his phone rings and Sean invites him out for the night, it's actually a relief. A distraction.

Even knowing that the repercussions of nights out with Sean can be high (and, sometimes, can end up with him agreeing to take a vassal as a gift) he agrees readily. If there's ever been a time in which he needs to be extremely, stupidly drunk, this is it.

*

The bar they go to is exactly the kind of place that Sean loves: loud, crowded, expensive. There are girls there to hang on their every word, the kind of beautiful women that Mark knows wouldn't be anywhere near him if it wasn't for Facebook.

Eduardo hangs around near his elbow, but as Mark strains to hear Sean's words over the pounding of the music it's clear that he isn't paying attention. His gaze is scanning the dance floor, and he only pays attention to the people he came here with when he has to reach out and refill Mark's drink with a single touch of his finger, magic sparkling for a moment through the air.

Mark has a pleasant buzz and he's enjoying Sean's company by the point in the evening that Eduardo leans in close against his ear. The gentle brush of Wardo's breath against the shell of his ear forces Mark to grip onto his bottle unnaturally hard. His eyelids flicker.

"Do you need me for the rest of the night?" Wardo asks.

Mark glances towards him, his eyes squinting as he tries to work out why he's asking. "You want the night off?" he asks. He didn't even know that vassal could take nights off. National holidays, weekends? Maybe he's never going to understand all the rules. He gives a half-shrug. "Sure, go."

Eduardo pats his knee as his way of saying thanks, and it makes Mark's spine go instantly straight. Wardo leaves, but the warm spot that he's abandoned is quickly filled by one of Sean's girls. It's not as good, and not nearly as warm.

Across the table, he can see Sean smirking at him.

"Stop it," he instructs, pointing at him around his beer bottle. "Don't."

"I didn't say a word," Sean protests, although his smirk turns into a full-on grin. "I'm trying to work out how my gift's settling in, that's all."

"He's fine," Mark answers. Sean is looking at him like he expects far more of an answer than 'fine', and Mark doesn't know what he's supposed to give him. "He does my laundry, cooks for me, gets me to work on time. I don't have any complaints."

"If that was what he was for, I could have got you a housekeeper." Sean leans forward, bridging the gap between them. "Have you two, y'know, gone there yet?"

"I can't see that being any of your business," Mark says.

That is, of course, more than enough of an answer for Sean as it is.

He shakes his head, and Mark can see him laughing at him. It's not cruel, exactly; it's not meant that way. It's the laugh people give when he's not understanding something socially important. It happened a lot in high school. Once you're rich enough to own someone, they tend to stop laughing at you.

"That is messed up. What's the problem? Did you want a girl? I can get him replaced if you want."

"It's – what, _no_. Why would that even be an option?" Sometimes, Mark thinks that someone like him was never supposed to end up in the side of the world he's in. He doesn't think like a millionaire; he doesn't act like one. Most of the people he's met that act like millionaires are idiots (most people he's met period, actually), and he doesn't want to be counted among them. "I'm not going to take advantage of someone I own."

"That's what he's there for," Sean says. "Seriously. They like it. You think we'd be allowed to keep them if it was slavery?"

Mark's response is cut off when a ripple of heat waves through the entire bar. A murmur follows it as people ask each other what's going on, and Mark feels a sudden wave of light-headedness. Across the table, Sean raises his eyebrows at him.

"Looks like trouble," he says.

They stand up and follow the crowd, nudging their way through to try to get a look. Mark glares at the back of people's head, and curses his lack of heat-vision. "What's going on?" he asks a stranger.

"Paranormals," she says. "They're, like, _mating_."

"Shit." It seems like the only appropriate response. With a little more liberal use of his elbows, he manages to get close enough to see what's going on.

It's a little less extreme than 'mating'. At least they're still wearing their clothes.

Wardo is wrapped around a short, Asian woman, his head bowed down as if he's murmuring into her ear. There's a tingly, orgasmic feeling pulsing out of the pair of them, as they move offbeat as if they've forgotten where they are. Mark can feel it like a caress over his body, and the reactions from the rest of the crowd say that they can feel it too. Everyone in the club is affected.

Mark's eyes are instantly drawn down to where the stranger is palming Wardo's ass. A possessive flare rushes through his chest.

Sean appears at his side and nudges him. "Dude, is she drinking from him?" he asks – and it's only then that Mark realises that Wardo isn't whispering at all. He's leaning down so that the woman can reach his neck. While one of her hands might be man-handling his ass, the other rests on the back of his neck, holding him in place while –

Yeah.

While she drinks from him. Drinks his _blood_. Vampire.

Appreciating that physically intervening with a pair of beings who both had the ability to squish him flat wouldn't end well, Mark goes for the next best option: he says Eduardo's name.

Not loud. Not shouting. Just Wardo's name, followed by an instruction. "Get over here." He allows his voice to go flat, allows his mind to fall into the steadiness he needs when making decisions. It's like coding. It's best to detach completely. It takes Eduardo a moment to pull back from the girl, longer than it should. His eyes are unfocused, but he makes his way towards Mark.

"Mark?" he says. Just being close to him right now is almost too much. It feels like Eduardo's hands are all over his skin, and Mark knows that if he isn't careful he's going to end up staining his pants again. "You said I had the night off?"

"I'm changing my mind. Go outside. Get us a cab. We're going home."

Eduardo stares at him, and for a moment Mark thinks that he's actually going to refuse. He can see the droplets of blood beading on Wardo's neck from the messy wound, and knows that they'll have to tend to it, but that can wait until they're out of this place and away from dozens of pairs of staring eyes.

It takes a moment of staring him down, but Wardo breaks, lowering his head and nodding before he heads for the exit – but not without looking back to offer a wave to the vampire that he leaves behind. Mark takes a breath from his nose, because he's seeing red. It's like a month of restrained emotions are trying to hit him at once. It's a struggle to maintain his calm façade.

"Do you need a hand?" Sean asks. The teasing smile has gone, replaced with genuine concern and a willingness to help, but Mark shakes his head anyway.

It's his mess; he'll clear it up.

First, he needs to work out where the hell to start.

 

 **iii.**

Wardo tends to his wound himself while he's waiting for Mark to come and join him in the cab. The advantage to being part-fairy is never being without the small things you need: whether that is cotton wool, gauze pads or the exact right moment to hail a cab. The universe can always be tipped in the right direction.

Without Christy right there, his neck hurts like hell. When a vampire is around, it can cloud the senses. The bite doesn't feel as sharp. In her absence, however, he's beginning to wonder how he got into this mess again.

The door on the other side of the cab opens and Mark climbs in. Giving the address to the driver, Mark then sits back and looks out of the window.

The disapproval that fills the backseat is enough to make Eduardo twitch in uncomfortable misery. He's not used to being in trouble.

"Mark," he says, leaning across the gap between them. "I'm sorry, okay. I didn't mean to embarrass you. I wasn't thinking clearly." He'd hardly been thinking at all.

Mark looks towards him, and not for the first time Eduardo wishes that he had the ability to dip into his mind and see what he's thinking.

"How's your neck?" Mark asks. "Do you need to see a doctor?"

Eduardo raises his hand to the covered wound, and shakes his head. "I'll be fine. It'll heal."

Mark nods, and returns his gaze to the window without further comment.

"Mark, really. I'm sorry."

"We'll talk about it when we get home," Mark states.

There's no arguing with the tone of his voice. Wardo feels like a scolded dog, and closes his mouth with difficulty. It's his own fault, he reminds himself. The last few weeks with Mark have been enough to cause him to grow lax with his standard of behaviour. It's frustrating, belonging to someone that doesn't want to be a master. In Wardo's experience, people have tended to get over their hang-ups after a day or two.

Yet Mark is different, and that is why Wardo likes being here with him. It's also, unfortunately, why he finds him endlessly frustrating.

He follows Mark's lead and stares sullenly out of the window until they reach the apartment. Trailing inside after Mark, Eduardo doesn't know what to expect. That's the problem. Around Mark he _never_ knows what to expect.

The apartment feels quiet in a way that makes his skin tingle with expectation. "Mark," he starts.

"I'll talk first," Mark says. Eduardo quiets himself immediately. "What you did tonight was incredibly stupid. If someone had linked you to Facebook, it would have reflected on us."

"You're making this about your company?" Eduardo asks. "Seriously?"

Mark blinks at him, lizard-like and cold. "Everything is about the company," he answers.

Eduardo thinks that maybe that's where they've been going wrong the entire time. He's supposed to be here to make Mark's life easier – but Mark doesn't have a life. He has a computer and a website and that's just about it. Eduardo can cook and clean around him, but in reality there's no need for him, no space for him to fit into.

"I'm not. Me, I'm nothing to do with your company. Does that even make sense to you?"

"I am the company. You were given to me. Therefore, you belong to the company. It's simple."

"It's stupid. I don't serve Facebook, Mark. I'm here for you. I'm _supposed_ to be here for you."

Mark is giving him that face again, the blank one that Eduardo can't make any sense of. After over a hundred years of dealing with humankind, he still can't make sense of any of this.

"You're shouting at me," Mark states after an over-long moment.

Eduardo, once again, is filled with the desire to throw things at him. "I'm not shouting at you," he shouts.

"Why am I the one getting shouted at here? You're the one that screwed up."

"What did I do that was so wrong?" Eduardo answers. "C'mon, enlighten me. You gave me the night off. I was free to do whatever I liked. So what's the problem?"

Mark's jaw tightens and releases, just once, but it's enough. Eduardo steps forward, feeling stupidly brave and disobedient. He can remember how it had felt last night to have his hands on him, to make him feel good, and he knows that he could do so much better. He could make him feel so much more, if only Mark would let him.

"Were you jealous?" he asks – and he knows that there is something unfair about the smile on his face, something bordering on mean, but he's earned it. For months now he has been pushed away and told that he couldn't do what he wanted, what he was made for. He's been plunged into the dark and now he has proof that it's all been for nothing. "That's it, isn't it? You were jealous of Christy."

Mark stares at him steadily, and Eduardo refuses to let himself crumble until the analysis of his cold eyes. "You knew her already," Mark concludes.

"She's an ex-girlfriend," Wardo says. It's more complicated than that – with vampires, it always is – but for now it'll do.

There's something in the way that Mark's nostrils flare as he breathes in through his nose, forcing himself to stay calm, that makes Eduardo want to grab him and shake him. Only decades of trained propriety still his hands.

"You shouldn't have let her touch you," Mark says. He looks away, so that he isn't meeting Eduardo's eyes any more. His hand rises as if he's making a point, but the gesture is too vague to make sense of. "If you're supposed to be mine, then she shouldn't have been able to grab you like that. People don't just touch other people's property. It's – it's rude."

"I'm not your property," Eduardo corrects irritably. "I work for you, I serve you, and you own me. But I'm not a house or a car. She can touch me all I want her to, especially if you're not up to it."

Mark's dead eyes stare at him for far too long. Under their intensity, Eduardo can feel every inch of his skin prickling under observation. He feels like a puzzle that's being solved.

"You're trying to provoke me," Mark says. "Why?"

"Why the hell not?" Eduardo says out of desperation. Now is about the time that he ought to retreat to his room, maybe slamming the doors out of irritation, but he can't keep his mouth shut. He doesn't even want to, because he's been putting up with Mark and his shit for months. "Nothing else works. I'm doing my best, Mark, and I am good at my job. Trust me, I'm good at it. But with you – it's like I'm not even here. Do you even notice me?"

"Of course I notice you. You're right there."

Eduardo makes a sound not unlike a growl. "You honestly must try in order to be this obtuse."

"You're mad at me because I don't take advantage of you. It's confusing, so – yes – I'm obtuse about it. Would it be better if I forced you to have sex with me every night?"

"Yes! I'm a succubus, Mark. There wouldn't be much force involved."

"We're stuck in a power dynamic that makes it very difficult for anything to happen here without it reflecting on me. I'm trying not to be an asshole here."

"You're failing." Eduardo crosses his arms over his chest. "A lot."

Mark flops down onto the couch, as if Eduardo has managed to sap all of the energy out of him. He's done that to men a lot in the past, but not usually by arguing with them. He stays on his feet and looks down at Mark, fighting against the natural instinct to give in and let him win. Sometimes, it's worth breaking the rules.

"Are you even thinking about this from my point of view?" Mark asks. "They say it can be addictive for humans."

"'They'?"

"Chris. The internet." Mark scowls. "I researched it."

"Well, I suppose that's a start." Eduardo steps forward and perches on the arm of the couch. "You could have just asked me."

"I have issues with social interaction, even of the regular kind," Mark says. "Asking my newly gifted sex-slave if I was going to get addicted to fucking him wasn't a situation I knew how to tackle."

Eduardo nudges Mark's foot with his own, not quite a kick. "I'm not a sex slave. If you're going to be dismissive, at least use the right term."

"Alright. Vassal." Mark props himself up on his elbows. "So here I am. Asking. How does it work with you?"

"You won't get sick. I won't steal your life force. I'm not in league with the devil. And I won't make you get pregnant." Eduardo frowns as he tries to remember if there are any other significant myths that he should be debunking. That probably covers the bulk of them. "But the sex will be good. Very good. That's what people mean when they say it's addictive. It's not a supernatural addiction. It simply makes it difficult to want to do anything else."

Mark continues to stare at him in a way that Eduardo tells himself he doesn't find unnerving. Intense stare or not, this is still Mark. This is the man that he has had to drag out of bed every morning for the last month, grumbling and groaning all the way to the office. It should be impossible to be intimidated by someone once you've watched them fall asleep, drooling, on their laptop keyboard.

"Trust me," he says. "I can blow your mind."

"You're quite arrogant about this," Mark says.

And that makes Eduardo light up with a sudden spark of instant amusement, because for Mark to accuse anyone of being arrogant it must be bad. Mark set the worldwide standard for arrogance, after all.

"I'm not being arrogant. I'm being truthful. You deserve to have all the facts." Eduardo can't fight the soft spot that he feels when he looks at Mark, and he knows that it shows on his face. It stops him from being objective or smart about his behaviour. It even makes him forget the pain of the bite mark on his neck. Looking at Mark, sprawled, comfortable and questioning, it's enough to make the wider world fade away. "I'm not saying that you have to make a decision tonight. But, if you're not interested in me like that, I'd like to know."

Mark nods, and sits up on the couch. There's a moment, tense and sweet, when Eduardo can imagine how the evening might end, with Mark's lips gentle and awkward against his mouth and Mark's hands quick and eager as they pull away his clothes.

But the moment breaks.

Nothing happens.

Mark swings his legs around so that he can stand up, reaching for his laptop already. "I'll get back to you on that," Mark says, and it's as close to a dismissal that Eduardo is going to get.

He closes his eyes and tilts his head back as Mark retreats to his bedroom. Shit. _Shit_. For a while there, he'd really thought that tonight might be the night that the tension broke.

Stupid, so stupid.

He wonders if he's ever going to learn not to expect too much from Mark. With the yearning that aches in the centre of his chest, he doubts if he's ever going to learn that lesson.

*

The newspapers the next day carry a few small pieces about supernaturals gone rogue; a wild succubus reeking havoc in a popular club. It's mostly used as an inroad to debate the morality and dangers of the new celebrity trend for vassals, and Eduardo flicks past it with only a cursory glance. There's nothing in there to link him to Mark or to Facebook; they're fine. He'll have to be more careful in the future, but there's no major harm done.

On the other hand, the way that Mark keeps looking at him (or determinedly not looking at him) isn't exactly good news either.

Eduardo keeps his head and carries on with work, but he can't stop looking at Mark every few seconds. It's a slightly increased rate from usual. His eyes have always automatically sought him out, but this is more intense than he's used to.

It's the first Monday of the month, which means that they have a general meeting: all of the most important people to the running of the company crammed into a room together. Even ceiling-to-floor windows and white walls can't make this anything other than old fashioned, and Mark doesn't bother to hide how bored he is with it all.

Eduardo makes up for it by taking copious notes, staying focused even when Dustin leans over to whisper to him, teasing him about being such a swot. With a smile, Eduardo flicks him away, but as usual it has absolutely no effect. Dustin leans in again, and invades Eduardo's personal space in order to draw obscene doodles in the margins of his notepad.

It's a long way from 'professional', but that's what Eduardo has learned to expect from this place. It seems to work for them.

He still won't stop wearing a suit to work, however. It's only right.

He hides a laugh behind his hand when Dustin adds a ridiculously large appendage to his drawing of a unicorn. To his left, he's acutely aware of Mark glaring at them. If they're being unprofessional enough to annoy Mark, things are certainly getting out of hand.

When Dustin reaches out to deface even more of his notes, Eduardo reaches down and taps the back of his hand. A little nudge of power, just a zap and nothing more, shoots from his finger to Dustin's hand. He pulls back instantly, eyebrows raised in over-the-top surprise.

"Kinky!" Dustin mouths at him, and then Eduardo is giggling, and Mark is glaring, and the person giving the current presentation stops and stares at him, and even disguising it as a coughing fit doesn't seem to work.

Dustin, meanwhile, seems able to keep a completely straight face.

 _Bastard._

*

Following the meeting, Mark asks to speak to him in his office. Eduardo's heart sinks as he walks this way, because this doesn't sound like it's going to end well. Mark's voice is flat and stern, and he feels as if he's walking into a lecture.

As it turns out, he's no sooner walked in and closed the door behind himself then he finds himself pressed back against it, Mark's hands on his chest as he kisses him with studied thoroughness.

Mark's lips are thin and relatively inexperienced, but they glide in determination as if they know exactly what they want from Eduardo. Eduardo gives a satisfied, embarrassing groan, even while he's aware that he's the one that ought to be able to hold it together here. He's just waited so long.

Mark pulls back with a violent jerk, but his hands keep Eduardo trapped against the door. Eduardo's hardly struggling.

"I thought I made it clear last night," Mark says. "I don't – I don't want anyone touching you. They don't have the right."

Eduardo frowns and tries to piece everything together, but then Mark is kissing him again. Arguing seems pointless. There's something desperately violent about the way that Mark moves against him, as if he has a point to prove. Eduardo's hands come to rest on Mark's sides, hoping to soothe him into a calmer mood, but it seems to have the opposite effect.

Mark pulls back and stares at him for a moment, his eyes piercing and dark. "Close the blinds," he instructs, without letting Eduardo go. Eduardo swallows, but reaches inside for the spark of magic to make it possible. The blinds whistle shut, and the room fills with shadows. "Lock the door." Without a key, the lock clunks shut.

Mark finally nods and takes a step backwards, giving Eduardo enough room to move if he wants to. He gestures towards the desk, twitchy and uncertain in his movements again. "Over there. I want you – " For a moment, that statement seems to be enough to block him. He points at the desk again. "I want you there. Over the desk."

With an acceding nod and a gracious smile, Eduardo heads forward. He slips off his suit jacket and begins to undo the buttons of his shirt, before Mark shakes his head and reaches out to stop him. Eduardo doesn't ask why; he's good at following orders.

"Bent over or on my back?" he asks, purposefully blunt, just to see the way that Mark reacts, swallowing hard.

There's a businesslike air to the transaction, as if this is part of a contract that Mark needs to sign. Eduardo's had a lot of sex in his time, from urgent and violent to tender and loving. Businesslike, that's a new one.

Mark gets him to bend over his desk after pushing important files and papers out of the way. He steps close and his hand rests against the back of Eduardo's head, pressing him down until his cheek touches the wood.

Eduardo wets his lips as Mark pulls his trousers and underwear down, exposing his ass to the air. There's a long pause, and Eduardo twists in order to see what Mark is doing: staring down at him with his lips parted. He's Mark, so there's little open glee on his face, but Eduardo knows him well enough to see his delight.

Mark pulls himself out of his thoughts and starts to push his sweatpants down, but his expression stays intense. "I don't know what I'm really doing here," he admits. "I've watched some stuff online, but… Well. I don't know how accurate it is."

"I can steer you through it. Don't worry, I'm kind of an expert at this." Which is boastful and smug but _also true_. Succubus, hello.

The details don't seem to matter to Mark, because the reminder makes him give a small grunt of displeasure. Eduardo closes his eyes for a moment, reminds himself how to be tactful and that humans aren't big fans of sharing, and then opens them again.

"If we were doing this the other way around we'd have to be more careful, but since it's me we'll be fine," Eduardo says. He doesn't want Mark to end up hurting himself – some other time, some other place, some other person. It doesn't bear thinking about, any of it.

He talks him through it as quickly as he can, sensing Mark's frustrated impatience as surely as he can feel the tip of his cock smearing precome against his ass. With nothing more than spit and a quick stretch, Eduardo feels ready, bracing himself against the desk.

"Are you sure?" Mark asks. "I don't want to hurt you."

Smiling, Eduardo can't help but feel reassured. Under Mark's brisk attitude, there's still something there. "Trust me – I know my limits," he says.

Confidence or not, it still steals his breath when Mark takes him at his word and lines himself up against his entrance, the blunt head of his cock nudging its way inside. With the harsh light of the office shining down on him, Eduardo breathes through his open mouth as Mark gradually eases into him. The long stretch is welcome, his body accepting it readily. It feels like he's been waiting forever.

Mark pushes in until his balls are flush with Eduardo's ass, as deep as he can get. Leaning over him, chest pressed to back, Mark pants against the nape of Eduardo's neck. It sounds like he's already coming apart, just from this.

"Wardo," Mark groans. "Fuck, I…"

He trails off into a mindless groan, so Eduardo tightens his muscles around him to make him really lose his train of thought. It works, as Mark swears again, his blunt fingernails digging into the flesh of Eduardo's hips.

It seems to be all the encouragement that Mark needs to draw out and begin a steady thrust, the pair of them shaking Mark's desk with the force of it. Gentle at first, slow, it doesn't take long before Mark dissolves into fucking him as hard and raw as he can.

It hooks into that power at the centre of Eduardo's being and sends it spilling out through the room and beyond, primal energy that tingled over the skin and sent sparks through the groin. Mark slams him hard against the edge of the desk with renewed strength and Eduardo moans, half-pleasure half-pain, as he feels the bruises ready to form.

Through the building, strangers are locking lips and clothes are being shed. Eduardo needs to pull himself together. He's too old and too powerful to risk losing control like this, but then Mark slides across his prostate and all surviving rational thought shatters into pieces. He wants him too badly.

A rational part of his mind might realise that this is nothing special: in his lifetime, he has been with people a lot more experienced and inventive than Mark. His body doesn't care. Everything feels bright and new, as if he'd never known what he was for before Mark touched him.

 _God_ , that sounds sappy. He hopes he didn't say it aloud.

He isn't capable of forming any words at all right now, his mouth open and moaning. He sounds like a goddamn whore, but it makes Mark fuck him just a little bit faster, little bit harder. Worth it.

He closes his eyes as he comes long before Mark, losing control and spilling over Mark's messy desk. Mark takes him through it, piercing through the haze and drawing it out, grunting on each thrust with effort.

He finally holds Eduardo firmly against the desk and goes still as he orgasms with a strangled groan, pressing as deeply inside as he can get. Eduardo can feel him like an ache all throughout his body.

When Mark pulls out, Eduardo feels it like a physical loss, as though someone has punched him in his stomach and stolen something from him. His legs are shaking and he's depending on the desk to hold him up; he decides to stay where he is for a moment or two, for the sake of his dignity.

Mark quickly pulls himself together, barely out of breath for his trouble, as he walks around the desk to sit at his chair. His face is flushed and stained with sweat, and he looks positively pleased with himself, like an arrogant cat, as he stares at the wreck he's made of Eduardo.

"Are you okay?" Mark asks.

Gingerly, Eduardo nods and stands up, pulling his underwear and trousers back up. He gathers his thoughts together before managing to smile. "Yeah," he says, followed by a half-laugh that leaves him surprised. "I've been waiting for you to do that for a long time."

Heavy knocking at the door causes Eduardo to abruptly open the blinds and undo the lock, leaning against the desk as the door opens. He hopes that he looks half-way composed, but he knows that it must be perfectly clear to anyone not in need of thick glasses what they've just been up to.

Chris and Dustin burst into the office.

Dustin is wearing nothing but his boxers and his tie. Chris has the look of a man who has hastily pulled his clothes back on. Eduardo can already tell that this isn't going to end well.

"I am in so much trouble," he murmurs to himself – thinking not of Mark, not of Facebook, not even of the wider media. His superiors, the higher-ups, The Father. They won't stand for this level of irresponsibility.

"Guys?" Chris snaps. "How am I supposed to explain an _orgy_ in the middle of our offices?"

"We're an alternative workplace," Mark suggests. It sounds less like a suggestion and more like a decree. "No shirts, no suits."

"No clothes?" Chris asks.

"I'm sorry," Eduardo says. "It was my fault. I lost control."

"I kind of guessed that," Chris snaps abruptly. He presses his fingers against his temples, lines forming on his forehead in concentration. "The entire building just started ripping off each other's clothes. We're going to have hundreds of sexual harassment suits on our hands, and that's if we're lucky. You could end up in jail for this, Wardo."

"No," Mark states categorically. "We won't let that happen."

"Mark, there are people out there who just had sex with their co-workers against their will. That's very much not-good."

Eduardo looks out of the blinds to the rest of the open-space office, where he can see people milling around in confusion. He wants to help in any way that he can, because he's the one that screwed up here. Not Mark.

"Go, do whatever damage control is needed," Mark says. "Keep the site and Eduardo out of trouble."

In the midst of his worry, it is still almost enough to make Eduardo smile to hear himself listed alongside Facebook on Mark's list of priorities. Chris and Dustin leave, and Dustin doesn't even have a smile or a thumbs-up for them on the way out. That means they've definitely done something wrong.

Mark gets up from his seat and heads towards the door as well. "Let's go home," he says. "We're not going to get any work done here anyway."

Scared glances follow them through the building as they leave, and Eduardo tries to pretend that he doesn't notice any of it. From the way that Mark carries himself, no different from normal, maybe he genuinely doesn't notice a single thing. Nothing seems to affect him.

At times like this, with the wrath of both human and supernatural law approaching, Eduardo wishes that he had that exact ability too.


	2. Chapter 2

**iv.**

Looking at Chris, Dustin thinks that he might be about to explode. Literally. Maybe that's one of the side effects of a succubus accidentally invading your thoughts. Or instincts. Or body.

To be honest, Dustin isn't even sure exactly what Eduardo _did_. One second, he had been plugged in and coding at a speed that would have impressed even Mark. The next second, he was more turned on than he had been in his entire life, and Chris was frantically pulling at the buttons of his loose shirt. After that, everything is something of a sticky mess.

Now, three hours later, and everything is beginning to calm down. It feels like the wake after a funeral – only less depressing, and with way more computers on every surface. Bad analogy, maybe.

Point is, so far no one seems to have called in either the police or the press. They'll need to wait until tomorrow's papers come out to be sure, but there's nothing on the internet, and for a company employing such a huge number of people it's practically a miracle.

Literally.

Dustin doesn't mean to be disparaging about Chris's crisis-management skills, because god knows the company would have exploded into atom-sized pieces a thousand times over if not for him, but this is supernaturally lucky.

"Do you think They've done something?" he asks, spinning around once on his computer chair.

Chris looks up at him from where he is currently glaring at something on his computer screen. His expression is cross as hell. On the other hand, it's the first time he's actually met his eyes since their little Eduardo-inspired make-out session. That's an improvement.

"'They'?"

"Y'know. They. Whoever controls the whole supernatural network." He waggles his fingers in the air. "There's got to be something behind it all. Everyone's feeling chilled out. That would not be happening without outside influence."

Chris returns his gaze to his computer and carries on with what he was doing. "Maybe I drugged the coffee," he suggests.

Deadpan. Total deadpan.

Chilled out, joking Chris. That definitely hasn't happened since college, since pre-Facebook days. Whatever They are doing, maybe Dustin's okay with it.

*

It isn't until the next morning that the shit starts to hit the fan.

Dustin is sleeping facedown in his bed, cheek smushed against the pillow, when his phone's ring tone begins to sound at an obnoxiously loud volume. Fumbling blindly, he reaches for it – knocking several other loud objects from his bedside cabinet in the meantime, until he manages to lock his hand around it.

Shoving the phone against his ear, he answers with a mumble. "This better be good," he mutters, although for anyone to be calling this early it has to be bad news.

"He's gone," says the panting voice on the other end. Dustin pulls the phone from his ear for a moment to look at the display: Mark. Weird. Panicked Mark. "Wardo's left."

"What?" Dustin rolls over and begins to sit up. "How do you know? Maybe he's buying a paper or something."

"He's a fairy. He can click his fingers if he wants a paper. He needs my permission to leave anyway."

"So…" It is far too early in the morning for him to be able to understand this. "He can't have left. Have you checked the closet?"

"Why would Wardo be in the closet?"

Dustin grunts. "Where else would he be?"

"I don't know. That's the point. Are you listening?"

"It's six in the morning. You're lucky I'm even conscious."

Mark makes a tiny noise of disapproval on the other end of the line. No doubt he's already wishing that he'd called Chris instead. Dustin tries to pull himself together more effectively. It must be freaking Mark out a lot for him to have bothered calling at all.

"Has he ever done anything like this before?" he asks. After Mark answers, he racks his brain. "Did you guys have a fight or anything?"

Considering what Eduardo had done yesterday – and, to be perfectly honest, Dustin's memory of exactly what happened already feels fuzzy and hard to grasp – arguing seems likely.

"No. We came home, we talked, and we had sex." Mark doesn't seem to hear Dustin groan in violation. "A lot of sex. And now he's gone."

"Was the sex that bad?"

Mark is glaring at him. Down the phone. Dustin can hear it.

"Okay, sorry. You're really worried about this?"

"He said he was going to be in a lot of trouble. I don't think he meant with me."

Still holding the phone to his ear, Dustin starts to get out of bed. "I knew it," he says, because – hey – finally a conspiracy theory he's right about. "You think They've taken him?"

Mark's doing his phone-glaring thing again. He's actually pretty good at it.

"Alright, okay. I'm getting up, and I'm going to be at your apartment in ten minutes. Call Chris, he'll know what to do."

"I already have. I called him first."

Dustin scowls. Sometimes, he wishes that Mark would learn the value of tact. "Well. Is he coming over?"

"He's on his way."

Dustin nods and continues getting dressed, hopping into his jeans while holding the phone against his ear. If he makes it out of the flat without falling on his face it's going to be a cause worth celebrating.

"Just get here," Mark demands. "I want this sorted."

With that last order, the commander-in-chief hangs up. Dustin rolls his eyes, chucks his phone onto his bed, and finishes getting dressed. It sounds like Mark is ready to go to war.

*

The summit meeting at Mark's flat doesn't go especially well, since no one actually has a clue about what they ought to do or how to locate a missing vassal. It's not like he came with an instruction manual.

So Mark glares and scowls and then goes all zombie-robot on them until they leave amid promises to work something out. "That could've gone better," Chris says, leaning against the back of the elevator as they make the long trip down.

Dustin doesn't feel like joking, not any more. "Do you think Wardo's okay?" he asks – because Wardo might belong to Mark, but he's their friend too. If something's happened to him, they want to help. And if Mark has screwed up and chased him off, Dustin needs his new email address so that they can keep in touch (and, largely, so that he can convince him to come back and stop Mark from exploding or dissolving).

The elevator lurches to a stop and Chris leaves to go to the library. A real library, with books and everything. Dustin, meanwhile, heads straight for his computer. If there is a conspiracy to be found, what better place to look than the almighty internet?

Three hours later, he has been persuaded of the existence of aliens, he is sure he knows who was behind the JFK shooting, and knows that the world is going to end in 2012 – but there's no sign of Eduardo anywhere, not in pages or in cyberspace.

 

 **v.**

There is a set of twins in his kitchen. Tall, tanned and muscular, they are not the kind of people that belong in Mark's apartment. Especially without an invitation.

Standing in the doorway with his dressing gown falling open, he should probably be more afraid than he is. They don't look like they're robbing the place. They look, in fact, like they're cleaning up and making breakfast. That's Wardo's job.

"Why are you in my kitchen?" Mark asks.

They turn around to face him at the same time, their movements a perfect mirror. "Mr Zuckerberg," one of them says with a far too pleasant smile. "I hope we didn't wake you."

"You're in my apartment."

"Yes. We're Mr Saverin's replacements."

And that is not an acceptable explanation on any level whatsoever. Mark's brow is so furrowed that he feels like a caveman. "I don't need a replacement. Where's Wardo gone?"

"We're afraid we're not able to discuss our colleagues," the twin says. "I'm Cameron; this is my brother Tyler. Let me assure you that we're very well-trained and more than capable of filling Eduardo's shoes."

"I don't want anyone else in his shoes," Mark answers. "When is he coming back?" He hates the wobbling sense of the unknown beneath his feet. Events are happening around him that he apparently had no control over. He needs to steady himself; he needs this fixed.

The twins look at each other, long and significant. This time, Tyler is the one that answers. "I'm afraid that Eduardo had to be recalled for training," he says. "We apologise whole-heartedly for the mix-up, and I promise that nothing like that will happen again."

Training. Mix-up. It's all starting to sound far more bureaucratic than anything Mark has dealt with since Harvard.

"How long does his training take?" he asks. "He doesn't need it."

The twins look at each other again. It seems as if there is an entire conversation going on that Mark isn't privy to.

"He may be gone for quite some time," Tyler says.

He sounds like a Bond villain. Mark would really rather not have evil overlords standing in his kitchen.

"Please, Mark," Cameron says generously, after Mark has been glaring at them for several moments too long without saying anything. Silence doesn’t seem to be enough to make them bring Eduardo back. "Take a seat. Have breakfast with us."

Mark stays exactly where he is. "If you've been sent as Eduardo's replacements, then there must be someone in charge."

Cameron nods helpfully. "We belong to The Father. And before you ask: no, it's not a religious thing." He smiles as if he expects Mark to smile too. His face doesn't twitch. "It's a lineage that has gone back to at least the ninth century. We – our kind, anyway – were the original vassals, long before it became a trend."

Ninth century. That's older than he expected. "Eduardo's been around that long?"

"No, god no. He's young. I think he joined us in the –" Cameron looks towards his brother, who doesn't say anything but seems to give him the answer anyway. "Late eighteenth century. Tyler and I have been working as vassals since the Renaissance. You're in very good hands."

The thought of being in their identical hands makes Mark need to go and have a shower. He stays in the seat, looking down as Tyler places a stack of pancakes in front of him. Even if his mouth is watering, he doesn't reach for a fork.

"You still haven't told me who's in charge," Mark points out. He leans back and folds his hand over his stomach. "I'm asking because I want to know who it is I'm going to be suing about all this."

That gets the twins to look at each other ( _again_ ) and a stream of satisfying confusion passes between them. "If you feel aggrieved, Mr Zuckerberg, let us apologise now. That wasn't our intention."

"I made an agreement with Wardo," Mark says. "Not with you, and not with your Father. This is breaking that contract."

"We understand that you're upset," Cameron soothes. "But – "

"I'm not upset," Mark says. He doesn't get upset. "You should get out of my apartment and send Wardo back. Otherwise, I'm going to get a lawyer, and I'm going to make sure that they destroy you."

Which is overdramatic.

He doesn't want to destroy their millennia-old organisation. He just wants to cripple them so that they're unable to piss him off any more.

The twins look at each other again, and leave a card on the kitchen island. They vanish into thin air while Mark is reaching for the card, leaving him with an empty kitchen, cooling pancakes, and a mystical legal battle coming for him. He wishes Wardo was there to take care of the stupid little things for him. The air in his apartment is slowly cooling.

*

Chris keeps staring at him as if he has declared that he wants to go and slay Goliath. The clock on his office wall is ticking menacingly and Mark slouches in his chair, sinking deep into his problems.

"Wardo didn't leave willingly," he states, "and he didn't go for some bullshit 'training' program. They're doing something to him. We're going to stop them."

Simple as that.

Only Chris keeps staring at him as if it is _not_ that simple, which is ridiculous.

"Mark, you're asking us to take on an extremely shady supernatural organisation that no one else even knows exists," Chris stage-whispers, as if someone might be listening in.

"I have a business card," Mark says, pointing at it again. "That's proof."

"That's proof that someone made a business card, not that there's an evil company that has kidnapped Wardo." Chris reaches for his phone, but doesn't yet dial any number. "I'll make some enquiries and see what I can do. Go home, Mark. Get some sleep. You look like shit."

Mark isn't sure how he looks any different to how he usually looks, but he leaves Chris's office all the same. He doesn't go back to his apartment. He heads to the closest computer instead, scaring away an intern with a frown of authority, and plugs in.

There's an organisation. There's a business. There's a business _card_.

Medieval or not, everyone is hooked in these days. If there is a trail, he can find it. He's going to burn them to the cyber-ground.

*

Twenty minutes later, his computer has exploded into a mess of green flames.

Looks like The Father takes the 'burning' thing literally.

*

He wakes up in the middle of the night, after sleeping spread like a starfish in the centre of his bed. His room is glowing.

Flipping onto his back and scrambling to his feet, he looks out for aliens, but the only thing that is there is a glowing ball of green light. It hovers in the centre of the room, waiting. Mark's hand rises to his head and he rubs at his scalp as he tries to work out if he's about to be set on fire as well.

"What the hell?" he asks aloud.

The ball doesn't answer. It just glows.

"What are you? Are you even a thing?" He's talking to light now. This so isn't good. Reaching for his abandoned dressing gown, he doesn't take his eyes off of it. "Can you speak?"

Maybe it's just a light, but it doesn't feel that way. Mark is usually too rational to rely on anything other than logic and facts. He doesn't make decisions based on 'feelings'. Yet, right now, he can feel himself being watched and weighted and judged. He stops slouching. It doesn't help.

"You're coming to me in the middle of the night, and you're setting my computer on fire when I get close to you," Mark says. He takes one step towards the light. It may only be a small half-step, but he hopes it looks threatening. "That means you're scared of me. You should be."

He's not an action hero, and he has no supernatural powers, but he has a lot of money at his disposal and maybe that's just about the same thing. His eyes narrow. The light isn't even doing anything.

"What's the plan? You're going to glow me to death? Or keep me up all night so I'm too tired to do anything in the morning?" The light refuses to answer. It's ruder than Mark. "I work with computers. I run off of caffeine."

No reaction.

While he ought to reach for the phone and call someone (is phoning the police to report a menacing light an acceptable response?) he moves forward instead. It's the action of a dumb blonde in a horror movie, but he walks straight towards the danger. For Wardo's sake, maybe it's his duty to investigate.

He reaches out with a hesitant twitch, until his fingers skim against the centre of the light. A pleasant tingling sensation spreads up his fingers, his arm, into his chest and downwards, far down – and he knows that, recognises it, opens his lips and –

And he isn't in his bedroom any more.

He isn't anywhere, actually.

It's a white room, with no windows, no doors, no furniture. No features. No noticeable light source, although that doesn't stop it from being as blinding as staring into the sun.

Mark hardly notices any of that, unable to give the room anything more than a cursory glance, because Eduardo is there, right there in front of him. His hair is a mess, and the skin around his eyes is pink and puffy as if he's been crying. He is a blot of colour on the blank canvass.

"You're not dead," Mark observes.

What he actually wants to do is grab hold of Eduardo and never let go of him again, but that's kind of sappy and he's never been too comfortable with the romantic-gestures thing. Just ask his ex-girlfriends.

Or.

Ex-girlfriend. Singular.

Not the point.

"I'm not dead," Eduardo confirms, but his voice is shaking and he won't look Mark in the eyes. Mark stares intently at his face, trying to work out exactly what has happened here. "Mark, you can't stay long. It isn't safe here."

"Then let's go. You can glow us out of here," Mark says. He's not actually sure what of the exact limits of Eduardo's powers, but if he can appear as a glowing ball in his bedroom then he can definitely get them out of a sterile exitless room.

But Eduardo's shaking his head. "I can't leave," he says. "I was able to bring you here, but I can't leave the room."

"I'm going to get you away from them," Mark says. He scowls. "They burned my computer." On the scale of things, it might not be the most harmful of their crimes, and it was an intern's computer rather than his own personal laptop, but that's beside the point.

"You have to forget about this stupid vendetta," Eduardo insists, the words snapping from him like an explosion. "Just let it go."

"You mean I should let you go," Mark translates, because that's what it boils down to. If he forgets about this, and accepts someone else in exchange, then he gets the feeling that Eduardo isn't ever going to return from his 'training' trip, not for years and not to him.

"Yes," Eduardo answers. "You're in over your head. This is dangerous, and I'm in so much trouble. You have to – Mark, you have to back off."

Water is welling in Eduardo's eyes again, and Mark isn't sure if he is capable of watching Eduardo cry. It makes him want to escape, but this room has no doors – there's no way out, nothing to do but watch with glaring clarity as Wardo fights back tears.

Wardo wipes at his face angrily, although nothing has spilled yet. "I mean it. Go home, and go to work tomorrow, and please take care of yourself." He sounds like he might remind Mark to eat his vegetables at any moment. "But this, you and me, that's done. It has to be."

"We bonded," Mark says. "I let you drink my blood. That's like a contract, which means you can't dissolve it."

"Mark."

"If you really wanted to I would let it go, but when you're standing in an exit-free room crying at me I'm inclined to think it isn't your decision." Mark stares at Eduardo as he talks, trying to mentally will him out of this place. It's like a prison. "Wardo, tell me how to pin them down. And, yes, that's an order."

"You have their card," Eduardo says, the words willed from him. "That's all you need."

Mark gives him a long and solid stare, which he hopes is enough to say that he'll need a lot more detail than that. He hates having to actually ask.

"Find something silver and press it against the card. It'll take you to them."

They couldn't just have a subway stop, could they? Mark can feel himself tumbling further and further into the supernatural realm; it's not a place that humans belong. With Eduardo in front of him like this, though, it's not as if there's any other option.

"What happens then?" Mark asks. "Once I'm there, what do I do?"

He's still hoping for a technological angle to all of this. He's seen Independence Day. Give him a laptop and their mainframe and he could cripple them in under ten minutes.

Eduardo is shaking his head. It's not a good sign.

"I don't know. Nobody has done this before."

Which isn't exactly encouraging, but it doesn't matter either. Mark is used to creating and breaking things that nobody ever has before, usually just for fun. It's more serious now, but it's the same principle.

Eduardo reaches out to touch his face, cupping his cheek, and his palm is so hot that it almost burns. "Be careful," he pleads – it sounds like he's begging and Mark wants to tell him to stop.

Eduardo infringes on his personal space before he can say anything, leaning down to nudge Mark's mouth open with his dry lips. His hand stays against the side of Mark's face, his fingertips like fire, as he kisses Mark like it's going to be the last time ever, slow and steady and more than a little desperate.

Mark holds onto the front of Eduardo's shirt, feeling the fluttering of his stomach with frantic breaths. He clings on as if it might be an anchor, while Eduardo's fingers on his face get hotter and hotter, until it's painful and Mark still doesn't want to pull away.

Eduardo pulls back, panting, and with his eyes still closed. "You have to go," he says. "They're coming."

That is in no way a good way to end a conversation, and Mark would tell him so, but the room flashes white. It's blinding.

When his vision clears, he's back in own bedroom. It's dark and hot and Eduardo is nowhere to be found. It's almost as if nothing has happened, but he can feel the skin on his cheek scalded from where Eduardo touched him. It happened. He's making progress.

Now he just needs to work out what to do next.

*

Chris is staring at him as if he's insane.

"Have you looked in the mirror?" Chris asks.

And, yes, of course he has. People like to think that he must get dressed in the dark and have no reflective surfaces in his house, but that isn't true. He knows exactly what he looks like. He just doesn't care.

In this case, it is probably the finger-shaped burns on his face that are attracting attention rather than his dishevelled appearance. They still feel hot to the touch if he skims his fingers over them – so he does that a lot, as if that tingling, burning sensation means that Eduardo is still in the room.

"Eduardo did that?" Chris asks, for what feels like the thousandth time.

"He didn't mean to. Something was coming." And there is no possible way that anything that sounds that ominous can be good. Mark frowns. "He was crying, or about to cry, so I need to – we need to – do something. Fix it. Somehow."

"And you think that the way to fix it is to follow Eduardo's advice and supernaturally transport yourself using a business card," Chris states.

There needs to be a new Facebook rule that says Chris is not allowed to sound that deadpan or disapproving. That's supposed to be Mark's job.

"It's Wardo. He's mine." Which is stupid and illogical but when he says it he can imagine Wardo smiling so what the hell. It's true anyway. Chris is staring at him in confusion, so Mark says it again: "It's _Wardo_."

There must be something new in the way that he says it, something breakable and desperate, because Chris's face softens and he nods as if he understands. "What do you need me to do?" he asks.

What Mark needs is for him to find him something made of pure silver, and watch his back as he goes through with this.

Half an hour later, he is armed with a small spoon in one hand and the business card in the other. Dustin and Chris are both in the room with him now, ready for back-up, just in case –

Well. Just in case of anything. No one knows quite what it going to happen.

"Good luck," Dustin says, clapping him on the shoulder with more force than is at all necessary. "You'll be fine."

It would sound a lot more convincing if he wasn't looking at Mark like this is the last time they're ever going to speak. It's fine. They're all going to be fine.

Mark looks down at the business card, simple and white, and then looks at his spoon. There is still time to back out, but it hardly even seems like an option.

He presses his lips together into a thin, angry line, and then he presses the two items together.

The world flashes white, and when he can see again he is no longer in the office.

 

 **vi.**

With undistinguished white on all sides, it's difficult for Eduardo to grab hold of any point of reference. He might have been in here for years; it might have been minutes. His palms sweat and his eyes water. Every heartbeat is another second, but he's lost count. He's forgotten.

And that's the point.

Legs folded beneath himself, he presses his hands against his head and tries to keep his thoughts clear; he tries to remember Mark. Mark, who got him into this mess. Mark, who is trying so hard to get him out of it.

Eduardo's body stiffens when a clanking sound breaks the silence, like wheels being turned and machinery grinding to a halt. Unsteady as a child, he climbs to his feet, looking in all blank directions, left and right.

When he turns back, the Winklevoss twins are standing beside him, far too close. After endless white, the colour hurts his eyes. "Eduardo," Cameron says, with something that might be real concern. He reaches out to place a hand on his shoulder. "How are you doing? We wanted to check on you."

Eduardo swallows. His mouth feels impossibly dry. "I'm okay."

"Good, good, that's great." Cameron's frown seems far too sincere. "Now, we've got a problem that you could really help us out with."

Eduardo clears his throat. "Mark?" he asks, although it's not much of a question. Of course it's Mark. Who else could cause enough trouble that the twins would have to turn to Eduardo for help?

"He made it here," Tyler says. "He talked to The Father."

Eduardo would laugh at that, if he didn't think it would get him into trouble – because, god, Mark is insane. He's mad and he's stubborn and Eduardo hadn't known it was possible to be so impressed by a human, so infatuated with one. Isolation and reprimands aren't enough to take that away.

"Things are going to get very difficult for you," Cameron says sympathetically. "Mr Zuckerberg wants to sue our firm for breach of contract. We can't let that happen."

"You can't hurt him," Eduardo states. They are able to do what they like to him; if they try to hurt a human, it would go against everything The Father stands for. They serve humankind. They don't destroy it. But it's more than that. "I marked him. I brought him here, and I…" He barely remembers. It's fuzzy on the outside, but he remembers his hand on Mark's cheek and the force of that bond.

"We know. Besides, we wouldn't dream of it," Cameron replies. "That's why we're here talking to you. You know you can't go back to him, right?"

Eduardo stares at him, right through him, because he can't listen to this. He has to believe in Mark – he has to trust in him.

"Eduardo, you lost control. A lot of people were hurt. We tidied that up for you; no one remembers. But we can't risk having that happen again. You must understand that."

"It was a mistake; it happened once."

"Maybe," Cameron says. His sympathy is a smothering pillow. "You can understand that that isn't a risk we can take. It's not about you, or Mark. It's about public safety."

They're right. Of course they're right. That doesn't mean that Eduardo can accept it, shaking his head automatically. "It's never happened before."

"It's unpredictable," Cameron says, as if he's agreeing. "Who knows what might happen next time? What if you hurt Mark?"

Eduardo has been alive for over a hundred years. He knows when he's being manipulated; he also knows, however, that he has a bad track record of falling for it. He looks between the twins, caught between his own desires and his good intentions.

"You can take some time off. Do some travelling; maybe some free-lancing. There are a lot of brilliant opportunities out there for someone with your abilities."

Eduardo nods numbly. He spent the '50s travelling, on a long sabbatical, and this might not be so different – except, he knows, it's going to be hell. There's a difference between a willing break and an official reprimand.

"I'm glad we've got that settled," Tyler says, short and impatient in his words. "Because, thanks to you, we've got a court case on our hands, and you're the main witness."

Eduardo frowns and turns his attention to Tyler. "What?"

"Your testimony is going to be vital to our case. We need to make sure you say the right things."

"I can't lie," Eduardo states.

Cameron shakes his head and places a hand on Eduardo's shoulder. "We would never ask you to do that," he says. "We just want to make sure that the story comes out right."

Spin doctoring. That, at least, he can understand. Using it against Mark might go against every instinct he has, but maybe it's better than the alternative. Steeling his resolve, he listens to what the twins have to say, and tries to mentally prepare himself for what has to come next.

*

His new suit had been provided for him by The Father, and is more expensive and well-tailored than anything he could have afforded himself. It feels like armour, as he sits in the corridor of a law firm's building and looks down at his hands, folded neatly in his lap.

He has to look at his hands because, at the other end of the hall, Mark is trying to get his attention.

He's subtle about it, since he's not the kind of guy to up and down with excitement, although Eduardo gets the impression that it's only the stern advice of Mark's lawyers that keep him where he is. Eduardo's glad for that. If Mark came over here, he isn't sure if he would be able to keep his composure.

He stands up, taking a few pacing steps back and forth, and looks at the clock for the third time in as many minutes. Time is going far too slowly; he simply wants this over with, if he has to go through it.

"I need to go to the bathroom," he murmurs to his lawyer, who looks at him as if he might be planning an escape attempt.

He goes anyway, knowing – maybe hoping – that Mark is going to follow. The bathrooms are recently renovated, with bright lights and shiny mirrors. Eduardo stares at his reflection over the top of the sink, seeing exhaustion painted clearly on his face in dark circles under his eyes and a clamminess to his face.

The door squeaks open and shut, and Eduardo doesn't take his eyes from the mirror. In the reflection, he can see Mark's closed-off face and the heavy shadow of his brow. Holding his tongue, he won't say a thing.

Mark shuffles from one foot to the other behind him, like a nervous horse pawing the ground. Eduardo won't allow himself to think it's adorable.

"You're allowed to talk to me," Mark says. "I checked the rules. There's nothing there that says you have to ignore me."

Eduardo closes his eyes. "I don't think it's smart to talk to you right now," he answers.

As a matter of fact, it's probably one of the stupidest things he's ever done – and he's had decades of bad decisions.

Mark's jaw clenches in his reflection, but that's all that Eduardo gets in response. "I'm not leaving you behind," Mark states. "If we get to the end of this and you still want to be an asshole, that's fine. But I'm going to win. You can be an asshole away from them."

"You won't win," Eduardo sighs. There's never been a case like this before; the supernatural community stays out of the spotlight as much as possible. Only Mark would be stubborn enough to push things this far. "They've been doing this for centuries."

"It's a new world now," Mark says, with the distain Eduardo has previously heard directed at old directors and archaic companies. "Everything's changed."

"Not for us." Eduardo shakes his head. "Human society can move on all it likes. We've watched empires fall."

Mark's frown only grows deeper, and he shoves his hands into his pockets. Reluctantly, Eduardo lets go of the side of the sink and turns around to face him properly.

"I'm not on your side in this," Eduardo says. "It's complicated."

"It's not," Mark says. "Physics is complicated; code is complicated. This is just – " He pauses, grunts and shakes his head. "It's stupid."

Eduardo smiles like cracked glass and looks down at the tiled floor. "Mark," he sighs. "Please. This is going to be embarrassing for you."

"I don't get embarrassed," Mark answers.

And that isn't true. Eduardo has slipped into Mark's life like he belongs there, and he knows so much about what hides in Mark's mind. He knows that he gets mad, gets bitter, when the world doesn't go his way. He knows that Mark does his best work when he's been humiliated and is angry at the world in general – it makes him wonder what is going to come out of this, what Mark is going to create in his bitter rage this time.

"You're going to be publicly arguing that you should be allowed to own another person." Eduardo shakes his head. "You'll sound insane."

"You're not a person," Mark answers, eyes narrowed. "You're something else. I'm not arguing that I own you; I'm saying that there's a contract and they broke it."

"No one is going to see it that way." Eduardo knows that much; he is going to be the one on the other side, the one saying that Mark has interpreted everything in the wrong way. "You're going to look like an asshole."

Mark shrugs again, just with one shoulder, and he meets Eduardo's eyes with a coal-black stare. It's as if nothing touches him, nothing at all, and it makes Eduardo want to reach out and shake him until he gets a proper reaction. More than that, it makes him want to cup Mark's face between his hands and kiss him until he knows that he doesn't mean a thing he's said or a thing he's going to say.

"Do you think I should back off? Is that it?" Mark asks. He blinks, lizard-like, and Eduardo thinks that from the outside it might be difficult to tell which of them was human and which of them wasn't. "Because I can do that. I can go back to Facebook and forget all about this. It won't matter to me. I'm here because it's supposed to matter to you."

He's lying; he's got to be lying. Eduardo can remember fragile smiles and the way that Mark's skin felt beneath his hands. He knows that this _matters_ to both of them.

"I hurt a lot of people," he says. "I don't know if you remember –if they let you remember – but it wasn't good. It could happen again."

"That was once, and it was unexpected. Unless you're useless at your job, you won't make the same mistake twice." Mark shuffles like a boy asking a girl to the school dance. "And you're not useless at your job. I wouldn't want you around if you were."

Eduardo smiles despite himself, relaxing into it, because he's sure that Mark is trying to be a lot more complimentary than he is managing.

"We were good together," Mark states, like it's an objective, inarguable fact. "It worked. Unless you're a really good actor, that wasn't just business."

Eduardo moves towards him, closer than he should be, until he's able to place his hand on Mark's cheek. He can feel the heat from where his fingers had burned him last time, in that white room; necessary to protect him, yes, but more evidence of how dangerous this is. He can't risk hurting anyone, least of all Mark.

He leans in to kiss the centre of Mark's forehead, and hears him grunt in displeasure at his target. His lips linger for a moment, dry and warm, as he closes his eyes against the scent of Mark's hair.

"Just for the record, I'm rooting for you," he confesses. His lawyer might hate him for admitting as much, but with Mark frozen beneath him he needs to say something.

Mark's hand hooks at the back of his neck, his fingers freezing cold against Eduardo's skin. He holds Eduardo where he is, until Eduardo's hands slide automatically onto Mark's hips.

They breathe quietly for a few moments, trapped in each other's space. Eduardo needs to leave. Outside, the lawyers will be missing him, and he has no doubt that they're aware Mark followed him in here. If they're not careful, he's going to get into even more trouble.

"Wardo," Mark sighs, like the word is being pulled from him.

Mark's fingers curl against the nape of his neck, but Eduardo takes a deep breath before he forces himself to break away. "I have to get back," he says.

Mark stares at him and doesn't answer, his face as blank as concrete. Shoulders tense, Eduardo keeps his head down as he leaves the bathroom behind, feeling as if he is walking towards the waiting executioner's block.

Outside the bathroom, he finds himself instantly flanked by the twins, one on each side. It's a struggle not to flinch; it's harder still not to keep walking and walking until he's out of the door. If he does that, he becomes an enemy to the very organisation that is like a family to him. They had saved him and cleaned him up and given him a purpose in life; turning his back on them isn't an option. Turning his back on Mark isn't one either.

Eduardo knows that his future is about to get a lot more complicated.

"We wanted to check that you're not getting cold feet," Tyler says.

"You can talk to us," Cameron adds. He places a hand on Eduardo's shoulder and the three of them walk in line together down the corridor. "Let us know if you have any worries, anything at all."

Caught between an empath and a telepath, Eduardo knows that there isn't much use in lying. "I'm conflicted about the case," he says. It's a considerable understatement. "But I'm not going to back out."

Tyler's hand mirrors his brother's on Eduardo's other shoulder. "That's good to hear. We're going to take this bastard down."

Cameron admonishes his brother for his language, because that is hardly how vassals are supposed to talk about humans. Eduardo almost smiles. Cameron is cut from the oldest of cloth, a true traditionalist.

"Let's get on with it," Eduardo says. "I just want this to be over."

Regardless of the outcome, that's all he's hoping for now: to be able to close his eyes and push all thoughts of depositions and legal battles from his mind.

It's time to get back to what he does best.

 

 **vii.**

Sean tends to avoid the office these days, partly out of choice and partly as a result of a very stern suggestion from Mark. Apparently he makes them look bad – which is bullshit, and not the kind of thing that one friend should say to another (especially not when the other is _him_ ) but whatever. He works with it.

He noses around while he's waiting for Mark to make it back from the first day of depositions, but even when he stares at the computer screens he has no idea what he's looking at. Lines and lines of code are a foreign language. It looks like nothing to him, nothing but dollar signs in a row.

When Mark storms back into the building, his head is down and his shoulders are tight. Sean's gonna guess that the day hasn't gone to plan.

"Mark," he says with a plastered smile. "I thought I'd check in. How's it going?"

Judging by the temperature of Mark's glare, he's guessing 'not good' would be the answer.

Which, okay, is kind of Sean's fault. He maybe could've thought twice before dumping a vassal on his metaphorical doorstep, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

He follows Mark as he storms towards his private office. When Mark is in this kind of mood, the most rational thing would be to stay well away. It's like handling a live bomb. Luckily, Sean isn't exactly known for conforming to rational behaviour.

Mark throws himself down into his computer chair with the kind of defeated violence usually reserved for the end of a bloody battle.

"I'm gonna go out on a limb and say you're getting your ass kicked," Sean deduces. He closes the office door behind himself when he enters.

"He's not telling the truth; everything he's saying – it just isn't right. It isn't accurate." Mark stares in the general direction of the window, but Sean gets the impression he isn't seeing a damn thing. "It doesn't make sense."

"They're vassals, man," Sean says. "They don't think the way we do."

To be honest, he doesn't have much of a clue about how supernaturals think. He's never had the deep and involved conversation with one that would be required to understand their thought patterns. They're not human; they're old and they're ancient and they know things that people don't. What else is there to think about?

Mark shakes his head and doesn't turn his attention back to Sean. "He said he's rooting for me," he murmurs, almost to himself.

"What?" Sean starts to think that coming all the way over here to offer moral support was a seriously bad idea. "When?"

"Today, in the bathroom. Eduardo's on my side." Mark nods firmly. "I don't get why he's doing this."

To Sean, the answer remains clear: dude, _vassal_. They're not known for being clear and truthful bastions of virtue. Apparently as an explanation that isn't going to cut it for Mark.

"Look, I came here to take you out," Sean says. "You shouldn't be stewing in an office."

Mark turns in his chair to see him, slow and leisurely as if he has a thousand years of spare time.

"C'mon, man. One night. You need your mind taken off of all this, and I am the man for that job."

Mark scowls at him some more, but now his eyes narrow and take on a far-away, thoughtful air. That's either very good or very bad. Considering how Mark's day seems to be going, Sean is going to bet his money on 'very bad'.

"Can you find the girl that Eduardo was with?" he asks. "The vampire."

The skin on the back of Sean's neck crawls when he thinks of that night, like cold water dripping down his spine. The raw energy in the club had been more intense than anything he had ever experienced; addictive, if it hadn't felt so dangerous.

"I can ask around," Sean confirms. A girl like that, a guy like him, it won't take too long to uncover her. The question is whether or not he should. "What do you want with her?"

"Wardo knows her," Mark says. "They've got some kind of history together."

"Raking up your boyfriend's exes? That's shady." Sean grins. It isn't reciprocated. "I'm just saying."

"Don't 'just say'," Mark snaps. "Go and do it."

Mark's a messed up son of a bitch, but as far as friends go he's been a good one. Sean does as he's asked; it's about time Mark owed him one.

*

She's beautiful, of course.

Sean is avoiding looking into her eyes (because he doesn't exactly know what powers she has, but he wants to stay safe), but that means that it is almost a physical impossibility not to stare at her exposed cleavage. And, yeah, that's rude, but he'd argue it would be just as rude not to appreciate it.

"I am not at liberty to discuss Mr Saverin," she says, like she's reciting from a script.

Sean grins and relaxes in his seat. He's been invited into her spacious flat; the wide open spaces and the art on the walls says that she's managed to accumulate more than enough wealth during her long unlife.

"I recognise lawyer-speak when I hear it," he says, not dropping his grin. "Who's told you to shut your mouth? Just between you and me."

"If Mark Zuckerberg is the one that sent you, then you already know," she says, stretching her legs out in front of her. "They'll have my head."

"You're not a vassal, though," Sean points out.

Her nose wrinkles. "No, I wouldn't lower myself," she answers. "I don't buy into their propaganda."

Okay, he can work with that. It's kind of terrifying to be near a free-lance vampire, knowing that she isn't bound by any human master, but Sean hasn't allowed himself to be intimidated by beautiful women since high school. Maybe Christy takes it to a new level, but he can meet her there.

When he asks her what she means, she tells him that all humans are like maggots. "They don't deserve to be served."

He's not entirely sure how to respond to that, so he gives a half-laugh as if she's joking. She doesn't laugh with him.

"I fully agree," he says. "Which is why you need to talk to me. We're suing them to try to get Eduardo out of there."

She raises an eyebrow. "Good luck with that," she says. "Eduardo is exactly where he wants to be."

Now they're onto something. Sean sits forward, tilts his head, and listens to everything he can.

*

A couple of hours later, Sean swings by Mark's flat – and, if Mark's eyes narrow at the sight of the sharp bite mark on his neck, he's smart enough not to say anything about it. Doesn't stop Sean's skin from crawling with self-conscious unease.

"I take it you found her," Mark says, stepping back from the door so that Sean can enter. "What did she say?"

It's a bullshit welcome, but it's the best that Sean can expect. "Not anything useful," he admits. Wasted trip, really, although the sweet throb in his neck makes him think that maybe he'll be searching out vampires more often.

"I don't care. Tell me anyway."

Sean heads to the fridge and helps himself to a beer, holding his breath at the scent of something rancid in there. A glance around the apartment, at empty cartons of take-out and crushed drinks cans, tells him that Mark probably hasn't said hello to a bin since Eduardo took off. It's not looking good. Maybe next time he _will_ get Mark a housekeeper rather than anything more complicated.

"She knew Eduardo before he got into the whole do-gooding thing," Sean says with a shrug. "And I mean she knew him, in a very naked, very Biblical sense."

Mark frowns 'til he looks like he's going to burst a blood vessel. Apparently when he wanted details he didn't want that kind. Whatever.

"So, they're running riot through the eighteenth century, when the twins turn up and punch them."

"What?"

"Not in a physical way. Like a final club or something." Sean shrugs, but he sees the way that Mark's eyes darken. Everyone knows that that is a particular sore spot for him. Sean is fine with prodding bruises "The twins turn up, tell them they've been selected, and while Eduardo does cartwheels of glee, Christy tells them where to get off. That's more or less the whole story."

He settles on the arm of Mark's couch while Mark hovers near the window, his fingers scattering nervously on the sill. He won't keep still, as if there's too much energy in his pale limbs. "It's an honour," Mark murmurs, as if he's still processing the information, adding it to previous back-catalogues. "Serving us, being with Them. It's something he wanted."

"That's what I'm saying, man," Sean confirms. "Maybe the reason he's fighting you on this is because he really does want out."

"He doesn't know what he wants," Mark complains.

Sean knows better than to advise Mark to drop the whole thing. If he wants to take on a supernatural organisation all for the sake of some guy who doesn't even want him to win, that's his suicide mission, not Sean's. As long as it doesn't affect Facebook, they're good.

"I'm gonna head off," Sean says, "unless you need any other psycho blood-suckers interrogated?"

Mark mumbles a collection of non-words, which Sean takes as a dismissal. He's glad to be out of there, his neck throbbing; sometimes, a friend's problems are too big to take on.

Mark's in this one alone.


	3. Chapter 3

**viii.**

Mark's gaze rests on the tabletop as he tries to bore a hole in it with his mind. Through the broad windows on the other side of the table, sunlight creeps through the blinds and pours onto the wood, but Mark won't look up. Wardo is there, in his neatly pressed suit, spinning lies and half-truths as prompted.

"On the night that you and Mr Zuckerberg met, you exchanged blood, is this correct?"

Eduardo nods, but is told to speak aloud for the record. "Yes," he answers. From the periphery of his vision, Mark can see the way that Eduardo glances towards his twins before giving any answer at all.

He taps his pen against the edge of the table at breakneck speed, his hands jittery and longing to get back to a keyboard. In the bright, bland office of the law firm he feels trapped. There are glass walls and broad windows; it makes him long for the darkness of a cloistered bedroom.

"Can you explain the significance of sharing blood?"

"I drank from him," Eduardo answers. His voice seems to come out of a dream. "From the wrist. Not very much. It's not about the actual transfer of blood – it's symbolic. The master gives sustenance and life force; in return, the vassal offers his service. There isn't anything mystical about the event itself. It's like children becoming blood brothers."

It hadn't felt that way at the time. The memories are fuzzy with alcohol, but Mark can still remember how Eduardo had knelt at his feet and pressed his lips against the slim cut on his wrist, kissing the single drop of blood that had beaded there. When he'd raised his head, the blood had been like a splotch of lipstick, and a sense of ownership had hooked through him from the centre of his chest. That hadn't been freaking symbolic.

"Would you say that there is anything legally binding about that transference?"

"Civil aspects of the law are largely a human notion," Eduardo says. It sounds scripted. "It's a case of tradition, not legality."

Mark looks up without meaning to, even when at his side his lawyer tenses at the sudden motion. "Traditionally, then, you're supposed to be mine," he states. "And to you guys tradition is law. Why the hell are we even here?"

"Mr Zuckerberg, we'd thank you not to address our client," Eduardo's lawyer requests.

Mark lowers his attention to the tabletop again, in an attempt to zone out as Eduardo is prompted to continue. He thinks maybe it would have been better if he hadn't come to these things at all, if he'd just let his lawyers handle it. Listening to Eduardo now is like listening to someone else entirely. He doesn't sound like the person Mark remembers; he's a stranger.

"Can you tell us how many others you served before Mr Zuckerberg?"

A long pause is enough to make Mark look up again. Eduardo is looking towards his lawyers and the twins again, as if they are the ones whose opinion matters. Mark's pen taps faster against the table, until Marylin reaches over to stop him, her hand resting on his arm. Mark wants to glance up, wants to see if Eduardo's looking, wants him to be jealous because there's a _woman_ touching his arm.

"Seven long-term engagements with mortals," Eduardo answers. "I'm not able to give you their names. It's confidential."

Seven. Seven people before him, and that's apparently just counting the _long-term_ ones. What does 'long-term' mean to an immortal person? A year? Two? Ten? Mark's thinking that there should be heightened specificity, but the lawyers are moving on.

"With these others, was there an emotional attachment?"

"I lived with them for several years; I wouldn't have done that if I didn't care about them."

"Have there been any other 'engagements' that you've ended prematurely, as with Mr Zuckerberg?"

Mark tries to keep his gaze lowered, but once more he finds his eyes rising to peek at Eduardo. Eduardo is staring right at him, his eyes wide but unseeing, as if he's unaware that Mark is even there. "No. They've always come to a natural end."

"Can you be more specific?"

"No one wants to spend their life with a vassal," Eduardo says. There's a curl like a smile on his lips, but it's dark and bitter. There are memories in his eyes that Mark has no way of accessing. "I leave when my services are no longer required. That's how it's worked in the past."

"But not this time?"

Mark studies Eduardo's face, and there's a flicker of life in his eyes, as Eduardo notices he's been staring. He holds his gaze and Mark's eyes narrow as he evaluates every shift and twitch, trying to pick out what is going on under there.

"No," Eduardo says when he's prompted again. "Not this time. I decided to leave Mark's care myself."

"That isn't what happened," Mark blurts. "You can't just lie."

"Mr Zuckerberg," Wardo's counsel cautions.

"He didn't choose to leave. They took him away."

"In your statement, you said that you were asleep when Mr Saverin departed."

That might be true, but it isn't the point. He knows that Eduardo didn't get up and leave of his own choice; he wouldn't do that. Mark would have known, would have sensed it.

For a start, maybe he would have freaking woken up instead of sleeping straight through the whole thing.

"Has he told you about the white room they're keeping him in? He was crying when I last visited him. I've been told I'm bad with emotions, but I'm still reasonably certain that people don't burst into tears when they're the ones that walked out."

"Mark," Wardo says – and his voice is gentle and understanding and that is utter, total bullshit. Wardo doesn't understand a damn thing.

Mark flings his pen down on the table, watches it bounce and then he leans back, the muscle in his jaw clenching wildly. He doesn't answer when he's asked if he has any further contributions, just stares at Wardo and tries to set him alight with his gaze.

It doesn't work.

Sometimes, Mark thinks it's a good thing that he wasn't gifted with any powers. The temptation to misuse them would be too much to handle. He has no idea how Wardo and his kind cope.  


*

Two days into the depositions, Wardo corners him in the bathroom. It's becoming a regular meeting spot, if two times is allowed to count as regular. Wardo leans against the door to stop anyone else from entering, crossing his arms over his chest in a way that is bound to crease his expensive suit.

"I don't think we're supposed to talk to each other. I might try to corrupt you," Mark states, not allowing himself to be drawn in – because, shit, he can't make sense of Wardo any more. He never really could, but it's worse than ever now. None of it makes sense.

"I was corrupted a long time ago," Wardo says. His face twitches, revealing a brilliant smile that disappears into nerves. "They're going to offer you a deal. You should settle."

Mark shakes his head, a miniscule movement. "I don't need money. I'm the world's youngest billionaire." There isn't a sum high enough to call him off, and he thinks they know that. He thinks that must be why they're scared of him.

"It doesn't have to be money." Wardo tilts his head to the side, studying him. "You have no idea about the kind of power The Father has. They could give you anything."

"I want you," Mark snaps. It sounds ridiculously sappy, and he wants to claw the words back when he sees the surprise register on Wardo's face. He looks down, breathes in, and shrugs.

"If you win this case, do you understand what kind of precedent that sets? This isn't just about me and you."

Mark hears him, he really does, but he's not going to accept it. Screw precedents, screw everyone else; they are all that matters. The rest of the world can cope.

"Mark," Wardo says – like he's pleading, like he thinks that his wide puppy-dog eyes are going to be enough to win this. Mark wonders if the other side sent him in here on purpose, a Trojan horse here to disarm him.

He pushes away from the sinks and moves towards Wardo, closing in, allowing himself to think of lions and their prey. He isn't sure which of them holds which role; he doesn't know who is hunting who, not any more. With Wardo, the world becomes more complicated. Mark barely understands humanity itself – he isn't equipped to add an extra underworld to his understanding.

He shuffles closer until personal space becomes irrelevant, and he has to look up in order to hold Wardo's gaze, boring into his almond eyes. There's guarded caution waiting for him there, but Wardo doesn't try to push him away.

Mark reaches out to place his hands on Wardo's hips, holding him firmly against the door. "I'm going to win," he states. Losing isn't something that he does, not any more. Facebook and all of the benefits that it brings have made him a winner; he gets to leave high school and all its bullshit behind. "You guys wouldn't be so scared of me if I wasn't."

"We're not scared," Wardo answers.

Mark looks down as he undoes Wardo's dress pants, watching his own actions instead of Wardo's face. He hears Wardo say his name, but blocks it out. Unless Wardo is going to tell him to stop, or tell him he's sorry, then there is nothing relevant to say to each other until all of this is over.

Wardo shifts his hips to help Mark to drag his trousers down to his ankles. Mark drops to the ground and kneels at his feet, his face settling into a frown of determination. His palms tingle with the bare excitement from touching Wardo's skin again, as he strokes over Wardo's legs and up his thighs, back to his hips where he pins him again.

Wardo's cock is only half-hard, but that's enough. Mark hasn't done this before, and he's trying hard not to think about how experienced Wardo must be – with his seven long-term engagements and his decades of fucking his way across the world and if Mark thinks about all of this too much then he is probably going to end up hurting someone.

Instead he takes Wardo's cock in hand, and feels him begin to lengthen and stiffen as blood rushes where it is needed. Mark keeps his gaze lowered on purpose, glowering with intensity as he takes the tip into his mouth, no teasing, no pretence. It's not like they're here to draw things out and make sweet love.

Low, strangled moans leave Wardo's chest like he isn't able to fight them, slipping out unguarded. Mark strokes his thumbs along Wardo's hipbones as he hollows his cheeks and sucks on his cock, desperate to make this good and fast, like he's got a point to prove. Wardo's fingers run through his hair and clench on to the curls, too tight to be comfortable. He puts up with it, as his head moves back and forth, Wardo's cock sliding wet and hot against his lips. The taste overwhelms him, blocking out the rest of the world. If he focuses on it enough, maybe he can even forget the situation they are in and what led them here.

The bathroom tiles are hard beneath his knees, but it fades away as soon as he sucks hard enough to make Wardo cry out and give a little back; heat shoots through him from Wardo's hand, tingling and brilliant in the way it had been when Wardo touched just his foot.

It's pure, undiluted _feeling_ , and Mark moans greedily around Wardo's cock at the experience. His hands clutch Wardo's hips before he moves them back to the firm muscle of Wardo's ass, squeezing hold as he runs his tongue along the length of Wardo's dick. He's achingly hard in his pants at the memory of how it had felt to be inside of him, to own him utterly and unapologetically.

He hopes his mouth feels as good, and the pulses of power shooting from Wardo to him are a good indication. Wardo's head falls back against the bathroom door, his lips parted, groans tumbling from his throat as if he's never felt anything this good before.

He brushes his fingers against Wardo's hole, feather-light as he sucks on him with determined focus. Wardo whines, high-pitched and strangled, before he comes down Mark's throat, his fingers clenching in Mark's curls. It stings, and the musky taste fills his mouth, but the expression of released pleasure on Wardo's face makes it worth it.

Mark pulls his mouth from Wardo's face and climbs to his feet, slamming their lips together instead of swallowing. Wardo must taste the way that he's flooded his mouth and stained him completely. Mark clings hold of him and thrusts his tongue where it belongs, clashing teeth and bumping noses in his urgency.

Wardo moans under his assault, finally defeated, as he returns Mark's attention with blissed-out skill. Pulse after pulse of Wardo's energy pumps into him through every point of contact that they share, until Mark can feel fire licking at his skin and burning him brilliantly. It makes him shove Wardo more firmly against the door, feeling his bare legs and slack cock pressed against his body.

He breaks from Wardo's lips and moves down onto his neck instead, teeth digging in and sucking bruises onto his tanned skin. His clothed hips push against Wardo, rubbing himself off, but it's Wardo's power that makes him feel like his skin is too tight and that drags him closer and closer to the edge; it's the bright sense of Wardo inside him, penetrating every cell in a way that no human could do.

Mark grunts and spills inside his pants, his lips resting against Wardo's neck. Wardo's fingers comb through his hair as if he needs soothing and petting, while his power withdraws and purposefully fades away, expertly wielded instead of out of control.

"I can't give that up," Mark pants, as if this is all about the sex, as if that's all that he means.

Wardo's hand rests at the nape of his neck, his thumb stroking back and forth. There's no hurry to move, so Mark rests his head against his shoulder. He wonders if Wardo would take him home if he asked: if he would snap his fingers and get them out of there, as if none of the past few weeks had happened.

With a warm puff of air against his temple, the thought evaporates: "I need you to settle," Wardo pleads. Mark's shoulders tense. "It'll be easier on all of us."

And –

 _Shit._

After all this, Wardo still thinks about settlements and what is going to be 'easiest'. Mark wishes that he was a violent man, wishes that he was the kind of person that could make himself feel better with a balled fist.

"Why am I the only one fighting for this?" he demands.

It's supposed to be mutual. He had felt something between them, something real, and that has to mean something – he doesn't care about people very often. Now, it feels like it might be nothing more than a trick. It's a cheap ploy to hollow him out.

He feels like Dustin, with conspiracy theories running through his head, but he pulls away from Wardo. There's a wet, uncomfortable patch in his pants that is all Wardo's fault, and Wardo looks down to tuck himself away and rearrange his clothes. He has to look presentable after all, Mark thinks with a bitter stab. It's all about appearances.

"Mark…" Wardo sighs. "They're my family. I've been with them for longer than you've been alive."

"You sound like an old man."

"I _am_ an old man." Wardo shakes his head. "Sometimes it's like you really don't get it, Mark."

"No, Eduardo, I don't." He hates admitting that, the words like acid, but nothing else is working. "What don't I get?"

Wardo flails for a moment, hands spread wide, as if there are too many words that want to come out at once. "I'm not like you," he snaps eventually. "The newspapers? They're right. They say we're different and we are."

"That's bullshit." Mark has lived with Wardo in his life. Aside from magical powers and mind-blowing sex, there's nothing 'different' about him. "You're like everyone else: an idiot."

The anger on Eduardo's face flashes immediately, like he's been splashed with cold water. "If that's what you think then you'll be glad to get rid of me," he says, pushing away from the door so that he can turn around and fling it open.

And everything is starting to spin around and around in Mark's head; he's not even sure what side he is supposed to be arguing from any more, or even who he is arguing against. He wants Wardo with him. That's the end-game here - but Wardo is difficult and confusing and impossible to pin down.

Eduardo disappears out of the door before Mark has a chance to tell him to slow down and stop being an asshole. Mark kicks the door in irritation, but that only leaves him with a sore foot and a throbbing temper. The room is too hot and too brightly lit. Mark glares at the light strip above him as if he might be able to make it explode in his anger. It glows petulantly down at him.  


*

"Mark," Marylin sighs. She presses the tips of her fingers against the document on the desk. "This is a good deal. If we press harder, maybe we can get something more out of them, but that's aiming high."

"I've told you: I don't care about settling." Mark rests his head in his hands, his elbows settled firmly on the desk. It's dark outside beyond the windows. The lights glow in the skyscrapers around the city. It feels as if they've been arguing about this all day. "I don't care what they offer me."

"Three wishes," Marylin says, her voice dropping to a murmur, as if this is a secret. Alone in the room, there isn't much chance of anyone else overhearing. "That's what they're offering you, Mark. Do you understand how rare that is? No one has ever made a settlement like this."

And that makes it tempting. Mark likes treading on new ground, leaving footprints behind where none have been before. But -

"Could I wish for Wardo?"

Marylin glares at him as fiercely as any lawyer is able to do. It's almost enough to singe his eyebrows.

Mark glares back. "I'll take that as a no," he grumbles.

"You're not going to win this case," Marylin states.

"Then I'll get new lawyers." Mark shifts his attention back to the papers on the table, the ones that promise him the world if he'll just back off. "I'll find someone more capable."

"It won't matter who you hire." She's determinedly unruffled. He can't even hear a hitch in her voice to prove that he's unsettled her. "No one can win this. You have to settle and move on."

Everyone keeps telling him the same thing. It's hard to listen to them when he still has the taste of Wardo's cock in his mouth. "You should go," he says. "Take the others too. I'll find someone else."

With Facebook behind him, these guys are supposed to be the best that money can buy. There must be better. He'll find it.

Marylin argues with him but he waves her away, keeping his head down as he reaches for his laptop. He doesn't hear her parting words and is barely aware of the door closing, leaving him alone in the large conference room. His mind is already elsewhere, determined fingers flying over the keyboard. The clatter of hammered keys fills the room.  


*

During the night, when he finally makes it home, he shudders under the covers as a chill glides through the room. His cheek burns hot for a few moments, red like a branding iron in the dark, before it fades to nothing.

Morning comes, and his apartment is empty.

He heads to the Facebook offices on default, head in his own thoughts, and it isn't until he's slouching his way past frantic interns that he realises he's supposed to be fighting this case - by himself, since his lawyers have dutifully been disposed of.

"Mark," Chris says, with an absent-minded beckon of his hand. "Have you had a look at those reports I sent over? I need them back today."

"I'm supposed to be at the depositions," Mark answers with a scowl, although he knows that technically it isn't Chris's job to know his assigned location at all moments of the day. It is _someone's_ job, but he's not sure who. He's sure he used to have an assistant, before Wardo crashed into his life. "I should go."

"Wait, what?" Chris double-takes so quickly that he almost spins on the spot. "Are we being sued again? Who's suing us?"

Mark stares at him. And stares. And stares.

Chris doesn't flinch. "I'm serious, man. You haven't told me about this. How could you not have told me?" His eyes are wide and bulging and his hand twitches as if he's considering smacking Mark with it. Far too violent this early in the morning.

"Wardo," Mark snaps. "It's Wardo, remember?"

But Chris doesn't back off or apologise or even look guilty. He just gestures wildly as if Mark is the one in the wrong here. "Who the hell is Wardo?"

Which is...

 _No._

Mark's face twitches its way through a dozen reactions, but nothing sticks. He waits for the next beat, waits for something else to happen, but Chris stares at him in horror that can't be faked.

"They erased it," he murmurs aloud. "Everything."

They offered him a settlement, a legal way out, and when that didn't work - they took matters into their own hands. It's shitty as hell, and it's cheating. Mark's sure it can't be legal, but he doesn't know how to press a case against an organisation that wipes itself from the public's minds.

"Mark, you better tell me what's going on," Chris says. "I'm going to have a huge mess to clean up, aren't I?"

Mark shakes his head. There's nothing. He'll have to investigate, and ask everyone that he can, but he knows already that he won't find anything. The Father have wiped away all traces of Eduardo's earlier mistake; this is a practised retread. They probably frequently have to tidy up after their charges' mistakes, and the wider world is never any the wiser.

"It's done; it's dealt with," he answers in order to silence Chris and disentangle himself. Retreating to his office, he picks up the phone and dials every number that he can think of, barking at secretaries and growling at blank dial tones.

Marylin's office has no record of any dealings with him. They've never heard of The Father. Shoulders tense enough to burn, Mark presses the phone down into its holder and breathes deeply. His brow is furrowed; he doesn't know what to do next.

 

 **iv.**

"You won't need to come in today, Mr Saverin," Tyler tells him over the phone. "The Father has dealt with the matter."

Holding his phone to his ear, Eduardo stands in the centre of his new apartment and tries to follow the thread of what is going on. "What does that mean? Is Mark okay?"

"He's unharmed," Tyler confirms. It's not actually as reassuring as it ought to be. "You needn't concern yourself with it. Take a long break, like we discussed. Cameron and I will drop by sometime to talk about your options."

They hang up after polite goodbyes, leaving Eduardo to wonder what exactly that future is supposed to be. He's been avoiding thinking about it so far. With a slow, steady pace, he makes his way through to the kitchen that he hardly uses, staring out across the city through the window above the sink.

He misses Mark's apartment, with its constant mess and the soundtrack of typing; he misses Mark. A few snatched moments together in a corporate bathroom aren't enough. Mark drives him insane, until he wants to shout and claw at him, but despite that he doesn't know how to stay away from him.

It's strange, this connection. He has lived for centuries, and watched humans live and die with an impassive eye, always one step removed from their lives. He's not a monster; he had felt it and had mourned every single time that a friend or lover had passed away or left him.

Yet this is different.

Eduardo stares out of the window at the world that is offered to him: freedom and a long vacation. The world waits for him, with dozens of new people to meet and to help - and for the first time, he doesn't want to stride forward to find them.

He holds onto the edge of the sink and hangs his head down. His hair falls in front of his forehead, nearly long enough to block out his eyes, and he breathes deeply and steadily. "This is what we wanted," he mutters to himself, speaking under his breath. In the empty kitchen, his words still seem to be shouted.

His lawyers and the twins have all rehearsed all of the reasons why he and Mark have to separate. Mark is dangerous; Mark makes him dangerous. They couldn't have allowed him to win the court case - think of what that might mean for all other vassals serving under masters. Think of what that might mean for the principle of supernatural freedom.

He had heard their arguments. He had listened to them all.

He had sat at the other side of that large conference table and said everything that needed to be said. He'd painted the story with the slant they needed.

And now it is over. Now it's over and Eduardo is alone in his kitchen, looking down at his floor and wondering if Mark has remembered to eat properly without him there to mother him into it.

He's in trouble, he knows. Straightening up and running his hands through his hair, he knows he's in a lot of trouble. He doesn't have the slightest clue how to fix it.

*

The next day, the twins 'strongly advise' him to take a decade's leave, and he feels the doors of The Father close firmly behind him. Ten years. It feels like a long time stretching before him, and before he can second-guess himself he finds himself outside an unfamiliar home.

"Christy," he says through the intercom. "It's me. Wardo."

He hears a laugh before she buzzes him through, leaving him to ascend the stairs with worries flying through his mind. "I wondered when you would be turning up," she says, leaning against her doorframe when he reaches her. He feels the same longing for her that he always has, a pulse of desire that makes his palms tingle; he doubts that will ever fade. "Did they finally throw you out?"

He places a hand on her hips and kisses her cheek before she allows him into her home. The air is cold, like stepping into a fridge, but it has nothing to do with air conditioning.

"I heard the news," she says, heading straight for her kitchen to get him a drink. "Everyone has."

"News?"

"You've been fired." She smiles and shrugs. "As close as They can get to firing anyone, anyway."

"I'm taking some time off. It's not the same thing." He can feel the dishonour of it, though, like a choking blanket in the air. "I don't know what to do."

"You survived fine without them before," she reminds him with a sharp glance. He can feel the disapproval radiating from her.

She passes him a bottle of beer and they settle down onto large, white couches, nursing their sorrows while he tries to find his feet once more. The world still feels unsteady around him, but at least with Christy he can feel the solid rock of his past beneath his feet; he can remember that there was a time before he became entangled with humanity.

"He sent someone to visit me, you know," she says. "An arrogant young thing. He was delicious."

Wardo's brow furrows. "He sent someone?"

"Sean, I think," Christy says. She grins, fangs on show, and the sight of it means that Eduardo can't help but smile back. If anyone deserves to end up on the sharp side of those fangs, it's Sean. "Digging up dirt about you. I suppose they thought it might help their case, the poor things."

"They didn't know what they were up against," Eduardo sighs. Mark likes to attack giants. Eduardo thinks it makes him feel smarter, stronger; it feeds into his ego, already heavy and swollen. Maybe they're lucky that The Father played their dirty trick on him. The world couldn't have handled Mark Zuckerberg high on a supernatural success. "I should never have got him into this."

"Exactly," Christy agrees - and he finds himself frowning, displeased. "Humans have no place in our lives. This is a blessing."

He sighs and covers his face with his hands. "I know," he agrees. "I knew you'd think so, anyway."

"That's why you came here," she informs him, her expression guarded. "You wanted someone to remind you that humans are dogs."

"They're not." He's seen wonderful things during his time as a vassal; he has served amazing and kind people over the years, and has again and again seen the brightest side of humanity. He's not sure if that includes Mark yet. He doesn't think there's a right word or category for where he would fit in.

"Are we really going to argue about this?" She extends her leg across the couch and nudges him with her bare foot. "I always win."

"You always think you win," he corrects with a smile. He gives in too easily; hasn't that always been his problem? Yet he sobers quickly, as the thought of his current predicament hits him again. It's impossible to escape. With a pathetic groan, he flops against the back of the sofa and folds his arms over his chest. "What am I supposed to do?"

"You could travel," Christy suggests, but the thought of beautiful landscapes and ancient relics makes him sigh, "Or you could retreat to the other side and join one of the fairy courts. Even as a half-blood they're bound to accept you." Spending the next decade being treated as naturally inferior due to his mixed blood is even more unpalatable. Christy smirks. "Or you could go back to that bone-headed human of yours."

Eduardo raises his head and frowns at her. "I just fought a court case against him so I didn't have to go back."

"The Father fought a case to make sure he couldn't force you to go back," Christy corrects. "Don't act so confused, Eduardo. This is really why you came here: you wanted me to tell you to do this."

He shifts uncomfortably. "You're my friend. That's why I came."

"Don't be an idiot. You come to me when you're fighting with yourself. I know you better than you think." She smiles, fangs on show - deliberate, it's always deliberate when she does that. "So go to him. Apologise. Kiss him senseless, and stay out of trouble."

She nudges him with her foot again, harder this time, with a flash of dark danger in her eyes. Eduardo doesn't want to think about what might happen if he doesn't follow her advice. He still remembers the time she set his hotel room on fire after an argument. If he had been human, he probably would be dead.

"Thanks," he murmurs, but she rolls her eyes and won't acknowledge him.

He lets himself out, thoughts spinning through his mind as he makes the long journey down several flights of stairs.  


*

Mark isn't at his apartment when Eduardo visits. It's actually a relief to receive no answer, and to let himself in with a tingle of magic across the door handle. The apartment is exactly as he expected to find it, with used clothes on the floor and empty food cartons in the kitchen. He explores with a growing sense of nostalgia, and finds the bed unmade and the bathroom in sore need of scrubbing.

It shouldn't make him smile. It does.

It feels as if he's come home. A part of him expects Cameron or Tyler to come and drag him away, but he is left to his own devices; now that he has been dealt with, it seems that The Father has little care for his actions.

Finding a book on one of the shelves, Eduardo takes a seat on his side of the couch, his legs curled close beneath his body. He sheds his suit jacket and leaves it folded over the arm of the couch, and attempts to read, although his eyes keep skipping to the clock, never a minute apart.

It is dark outside when Mark's keys jangle in the door. Eduardo's spine jerks straight and he uncurls from the sofa, getting to his feet and dropping the book onto the warm patch where he had been sitting. His mouth is dry.

The door swings and Mark steps into his apartment. He has a paper bag in one hand, the heavy scent of Thai food coming from it. With sweatpants and an over-sized hoodie, he still looks far better than he has any right to do; Eduardo isn't used to feeling so off-balance.

Mark comes to an abrupt halt when he catches sight of Eduardo. "You're here," Mark states, his brow heavy. The door swings closed behind him, but he doesn't walk further into his apartment. He looks at Eduardo like an invader. "You guys won. No one remembers a thing."

"I know." Eduardo nods. The idea of friends like Chris and Dustin not even remembering him makes him uneasy, but there's nothing he can do about it. One halfling isn't enough to undo the strong magic of The Father. His protection, the touch to Mark's face, had been enough to prevent them from taking him out of his mind, but that's all. "I'm sorry. It wasn't my decision."

Mark stares at him, long and hard. It makes Eduardo's skin itch. "Why are you here?" he asks.

Blunt. Inelegant. It's a relief not to dance around the point.

"I don't know," he confesses. He looks away from Mark, around the apartment that had been his home for months. They had shared breakfast in that kitchen, and watched movies and played video games on that couch. He had rearranged Mark's wardrobe in the bedroom, and it had been on that large bed that they'd been together for the first time. He holds his breath for a moment, and then realises, "This is the only place I wanted to go."

Mark squints at him as if he isn't making sense.

"I've been released for ten years. It's like taking a vacation, but dishonourable." He wishes he didn't have to admit that, even to himself - but he knows that, out there, his old colleagues are talking behind his back, that the vassal gossip network will be alive with chatter about all of his mistakes. "I could go anywhere, Mark. Anywhere. Not just in the world; there are other dimensions, upstairs, downstairs, sideways. There's more than humanity has ever imagined - and instead I'm here."

By comparison to the glories that he could see if he wanted to, Mark's apartment is far from impressive. It doesn't shine with gold and the floor is covered with carpet rather than clouds. There is nothing extraordinary here at all.

Mark's eyes are narrowed as he observes him, and his lips are pressed into a single thin line. Eduardo can't understand anything on his face.

"I'm not here because I've been sent; I'm not here as your vassal." He shrugs, at a loss, because he doesn't feel in control of the words that are coming out of his mouth. "I'm just… _here_."

Mark bows his head - it might be a nod - and Eduardo feels a twinge like indigestion. His chest aches; coming here was a bad idea. He should have stayed far, far away.

"I have Thai food," Mark says, which is -

Well.

It's not exactly what Eduardo would have expected.

"There's enough to share. I know you don't usually eat, but... You could have some. If you wanted."

For a moment, Eduardo wonders if Mark is trying to construct a food-related metaphor, but as Mark moves past him to the kitchen that seems unlikely. Food. He's just turned up in Mark's apartment after a sticky court case, and the only thing that Mark wants to think about is his dinner.

"I've got a new game too," Mark says, placing his bag down on the kitchen counter. He doesn't look towards Eduardo. "It hasn't been released yet. We can try it out together."

"Mark," Eduardo snaps - he needs Mark's attention, on him rather than on his food or his computer. "Talk to me."

"I am talking to you."

Eduardo says Mark's name again, and this time it seems to be enough to at least get him to turn around and face him. His eyes, dark like coal, meet Eduardo's without flinching. "What am I supposed to say?" Mark asks. "I'm glad you're back. We don't need to make a fuss about it."

Eduardo wavers, and shakes his head. "Maybe we do," he says uncertainly.

"Do you want me to be mad at you? I could shout, if you want. There's a lot for me to shout at you about."

"No." Eduardo presses the heel of his hand against his forehead, and settles Mark with his most logical expression. "A lot of stuff has happened. We can't just skip to eating take-out and playing games."

"Gaming, not playing games. Kids play." Mark shifts his weight from foot to foot. His mouth twitches in displeasure. "You're here. Right now, I don't even want to question that. You could be gone in the morning."

"I won't be," he promises. So much could go wrong - he could be dragged away by the twins and The Father - but he means his vow. He'll struggle now, all that he can. "I'm here."

"For good?"

"For good," he confirms.

"Awesome." Mark pauses and then shrugs his shoulders. "Can I eat now?"

 _No, we're not done yet_ , Eduardo wants to insist, but he doesn't know what else there is to say. He had been worried about facing Mark's wrath all day. Now, that seems premature.

Mark takes him to the couch and beats the hell out of him at his new game. In profile, his face is a scowl of concentration, his brow heavy and his lips pressed together. It's like he's never been gone, like the court case never happened. Eduardo is sure that it isn't supposed to be this easy.  


*

In the dimmed light of his bedroom, Mark allows Eduardo to slowly strip him of his clothes. They don't speak. Eduardo listens to Mark's breathing, loud in the silence, and it makes need flare through him, red-hot through his entire body.

He takes Mark's face in between his hands and kisses him, the barest brush of lips that becomes deeper and more persistent within moments. Mark's hands clutch at him and drag him closer, his hand resting on the small of Eduardo's back. His palm is cold against Eduardo's bare skin, and his short nails scratch against him, clawing in.

Eduardo pants his name, breathing it against Mark's kiss-slick lips. "Mark, please," he murmurs, without knowing what he's asking for. He nuzzles away from his mouth, down to the throbbing pulse on his neck. His lips suck on it, followed by the wet attention of his tongue; his eyelids drop as he focuses on the sounds coming from Mark's mouth, the way his breathing gets heavier and heavier as if he's running a marathon.

Against Eduardo's thigh, he can feel Mark's erection, firm, steady and aching. He holds Mark down with his weight over his body, but that doesn't seem to stop Mark from rocking back and forth, leaving a wet stripe along Eduardo's skin as he rubs himself on his leg.

Eduardo chuckles, pulling back from Mark's neck to look down at him. "You're impatient," he says, but he can't stop himself from smiling.

Mark's mouth forms a thin curve. "Can you blame me?"

The answer to that is definitely 'no'. Eduardo has had decades of experience, and that is the only thing stopping him from losing control entirely. He wants to hide in this bed with Mark forever, to block the world out so that it is just the pair of them.

His hand finds Mark's and their fingers interlock. He looks down at that point of contact between them, and it is somehow more than the wealth of naked skin before him. Raising their joined fists to his mouth, he presses his lips against Mark's knuckles.

 _I'm not leaving_ , he thinks, _Not ever._

The dark desperation in Mark's eyes says that he doesn't believe him. Not yet. He takes the tip of one of Mark's fingers into his mouth and scrapes his teeth along the nail. He's got time to make Mark believe.

It starts tonight, skin on skin, flesh on flesh, the place where a succubus thrives.


End file.
